Morelli Than They Bargained For: Sequal to Maybe Morelli
by AutumnDreaming
Summary: Stephanie and Joe Morelli are not just private investigators. They are husband and wife. And like most newlyweds in Trenton, they're broke. Comedy ensues as Steph and Joe must learn to work together while searching for a missing socialite and solving a mystery surrounding five ancient gold coins. The cast of regulars adds flavor, but Ranger adds the heat. Cupcake ending.
1. The Honeymoon's Over

My name is Stephanie Plum…oops. I mean, Stephanie Morelli. I was recently married, much to my mother's delight. My husband, Joe, and I had been living on our new houseboat for two weeks when we had our first fight as a married couple.

We used to fight over my job, or my habit of leaving little pieces of olive stuck in the peanut butter. This fight started out a lot like our pre-marital fights, with something stupid, and ended up in a blowout.

"What am I supposed to do, Joe?" I asked in earnest, my voice two octaves too high, my arms outstretched palms up, in the universal sign of a distressed woman on the edge.

"Just do what you would normally be doing at this time of day," Joe said, waiving me off. He was watching a football game on ESPN while sitting at the desk in our business office, which doubled as our living room. He was lounging in navy sweats, sock feet up on the desk, chair leaning back slightly, drinking a beer and eating peanuts. He had been going over the finances, which helped us outline a timeframe for when we could expect the electricity to be shut off due to non-payment.

"Normally, I would have my own apartment. I would be working as a bond enforcement agent for my cousin, Vinnie. I'd be hanging out at the office with Lula and Connie. But I no longer have my own apartment. I no longer work for Vinnie. I am no longer a bond enforcement agent. And Lula and Connie are now working full time for Melvin Pickle at his new photography studio. Nothing is the same. I don't even know who I am anymore," I complained.

"You're the same person you've always been, Cupcake. You may not be Stephanie Plum, bounty hunter, but you have a new job. You're Stephanie Morelli, private investigator," he reminded me, leaning back and tapping the plate glass window that announced to all approaching visitors:

Morelli & Morelli

Detective Agency

Surveillance

Missing Persons

Domestic/Child Custody

Criminal Investigations

Heir/Witness Locates

Risk Management

Background Checks

Consulting

"And you don't need Lula and Connie. I'm here to help you." He trying to sound reassuring, but all he was doing was winding me up.

"What am I supposed to do without Connie? She always assigned me my FTA's. She handled the contracts. She handled payroll. All I had to do was bring in the bad guy. I don't know how to find clients for a private detective agency."

"Honestly, Steph, I just thought customers would knock on the front door. We posted signs all over town."

"No, I posted signs all over town," I corrected. "And no one's knocking, Joe. So, now what?"

"You're just a little stir crazy, Steph. Just relax. Go mingle with people. You're always being asked to investigate things. Just let nature take it's course."

"Yes, but that usually happens while I'm working a case. I have no case to work. I have no one to investigate."

"That's never stopped you from getting involved in other people's business before."

I sucked in a big breath and planted my hands on my hips, shifting into rhino mode. "I know you didn't just call me a Berg busy-body." I growled under my breath. I couldn't control the tapping of my foot as I waited impatiently for his answer. It was on.

"Steph," Joe groaned, not wanting to fight. "Just take your Grandma Mazur down to Clara's Beauty Parlor or to a viewing at Stiva's Funeral Home. Go visit the old folks in your old apartment building. There are lots of places you used to go to get into trouble. Just go there," he said, turning back to football.

"Do you want customers or do you want trouble, Joe?"

"With you, it's always been one in the same," he said with a sigh.

"Oh, really, Joe?" I yelled. "And just why is it my responsibility to find us clients? What about you and all your police connections? Got nothing?"

"What I've got is no income and bills coming due. I only had enough money to buy this barge at auction. I had to finance the cars and the rings. The dock fees are due again in 2 weeks. The fun's over. It's time to get back to work."

I stared at his sock feet, feeling the roots of my hair starting to smoke. I didn't know he had financed the rings too. He hadn't mentioned it when we went over the financials. I had a mental image of my wedding ring being repossessed. I had some experience with that, like my cars and furniture. It wasn't a pleasant feeling that suddenly overwhelmed me. "Well, isn't that romantic. Nothing says love like a revolving payment plan," I fumed.

"I didn't hear any complaints when I swept you off your feet and married you on this dock, or when we rocked this boat for the first time," Joe said, still engrossed in the game.

"You sprang it on me. I didn't have time to think. And we were already married when you announced that you were quitting the police department. I didn't realize you couldn't afford to take care of us. At least as a cop you were making a decent living. I trusted you. I thought you knew what you were doing. And you didn't discuss it with me, so it's not my fault."

"I quit the force so I could be with you. So I could include you in everything I do, just like you wanted," he said, his voice beginning to rise.

"So, you are saying it's my fault. This is all my fault?"

"I didn't say that. The fact that there is never any toilet paper in the bathroom, now, that's your fault," he yelled, color rising in his face, finally.

"Seriously," I sneered, "that's the best you've got? If you would just buy the big package with 24 rolls, we wouldn't have a problem. But, no! You just buy one roll at a time. Who buys one roll of toilet paper, Joe?"

"Someone with no storage space in the bathroom, because the small space under the sink is full of feminine products," he yelled.

"Don't yell at me!" I yelled.

"I'm not yelling", he bellowed, drowning me out and making the windows rattle.

"Do you really want to file for divorce citing irreconcilable differences over toilet paper?"

"We are not getting a divorce. We are having a discussion."

"Not anymore we're not." I turned on my heel and stormed out. I jumped in my yellow hydro-Jeep. I turned it over, hit reverse and spun the wheels, hitting the water as I shifted from land gears to water gears. A minute later I was doing 40 miles per hour up river, my pony tail flying behind me.

Joe had a black 2002 Camaro convertible. Both vehicles were purchased from a police auction. They had been modified by drug runners. They'd take off from a ship off shore and run the drugs right up to makeshift dock by some back road and disappear into suburbia. Apparently they hadn't considered that the US Coast Guard can do better than 40 miles per hour. Joe picked them up for next to nothing, because insurance was an obstacle for everyone but Ranger's talented agent, who probably has backers in third world countries.

My foot was pressed all the way to the floor, the motor was roaring, and it felt good. I was screaming a long string of expletives no one but God could hear. It was a bright, sunny day, and it did not suit my mood one bit. In a few hours, high tide would raise the water level by 8 or 9 feet. But it was low tide, and in another mile, I was going to have to slow down. There was a lot of exposed bank due to the recent hot weather. Trenton was in the grips of a dry spell, and I could see farther down the bank than even last week when I came this way with Joe. He had been teaching me to get the vehicle out of the water without getting stuck. He was tired of coming to my rescue.

The honeymoon was over.


	2. All That Shines

I powered around a curve in the river, up a small tributary. The banks were lined with large weeping willows, their wilting branches seemed to be reaching for the water that wasn't there. Deep roots that were usually under water were hanging suspended in the dry air. Beneath them, I could see the remains of what appeared to be a red brick retaining wall. I had never seen this before. It looked old, and a little creepy.

I took my foot off the gas and hung there, idling against the current, squinting to see into the darkness. A cloud covered the sun, and suddenly, as the glare on the water subsided, I could see an archway in the brick facade. Normally, it would have been underwater. But today, the small tunnel was completely exposed. It was man-made. No doubt about it.

Good Stephanie was thinking, "Turn around and go back."

"I'm just going to get a better look," Stupid Stephanie answered, steering toward the opening. "No way I'm going in there."

Yeah, right. As usual, I ignored that voice of reason, allowing my natural curiosity to get the better of me. Morelli wanted me to find trouble? I could find trouble better than anyone, and I was about to prove it once again.

I eased up until the tires made contact with the mud, then switched automatically into four-wheel drive and powered up and through the archway, into the muddy tunnel. I hit my high-beams, but didn't see anything at first.

A crack of thunder nearly caused me to jump out of my seat. My heart was pounding against my ribs. I tried to breathe deep and stay calm. I knew darn well I wasn't supposed to be here, and it smelled like a bad place to be too. River rot aside, it smelled like rust and fresh turned dirt. I was a city girl. I didn't like it. The closest thing I'd ever smelled was Simon Diggery at work grave robbing.

I inched farther in, slowly pointing my portable spotlight around. A million candle power lit the cavern, and I could see square walls ahead. It was a tunnel leading off into darkness. I turned around in my seat and shined the light the way I had come. I was considering backing out when the light reflected back, revealing a shiny object in the muddy tire tracks. I shined the light again. There was a metallic glint. It was the glint of gold.

For a moment, I just stared, mouth open. I think I might have started drooling. My life-long fantasy of finding buried treasure like Scrooge McDuck filled my mind. I had imagined what it would be like, in a cartoonish kind of way, to move mountains of gold around with a bulldozer. But as my Wonder Woman lifestyle collided with my Scrooge fantasy, I felt a wave of dizzy panic, or was it pure adrenaline excitement? I could feel the hydro-Jeep idling under me, like a super-hero vehicle. I had a beam of super strong light emanating from my hand, like magic. My eyes were blinking, trying to focus on the round shape of a gold coin sticking out of the mud. Could this really be happening? I could accept the reality of being stalked, threatened, firebombed, kidnapped, tortured, and rescued. I could handle apprehending dangerous criminals. I could hang out with guys who were formerly Special Forces and who occasionally toppled world governments, not to mention made bad guys disappear, permanently. I had even shot and killed a few murderers myself. Why were those things so easy to accept, but the thought of finally finding a lost treasure was too crazy to comprehend?

I threw the Jeep in park and jumped out. I pounced on the shiny object with the giddiness of greed I knew Scrooge himself would be able to appreciate. My feet were slipping in the mud, and my fingers were slipping over the slimy surface of the coin. It had to be real gold. Any other metal would have tarnished or rusted in the water. But gold is impervious. "Please, do not be a token from Chuck E. Cheese," I begged as I wiped the coin on my jeans and held it up for inspection.

I gasped. The round coin had an irregular shape around the edges. It had not been struck by a modern coin press. The images on both sides of the coin were slightly worn, but still clear. There was a shield with a coat of arms on one side, and a cross on the other side. The vertical and horizontal beams of the cross were the same length, like a coat of arms. The lettering around the edges looked like Roman numerals. I could make out "Rex" but not much else. And it was heavy. It wasn't an aluminum arcade coin. It was real gold. Real treasure. And it was all mine.

The next thing I knew, I was on my hands and knees in the mud, the light perched on the back bumper, shining bright on the fresh turned mud. Soon, I had three gold coins. I didn't feel any more.

I got back in the Jeep, pulled forward, kicking up all the mud I could along the way. The nose of the Jeep was now at a fork in tunnel. The original tunnel was a dead end at a large tree trunk that had apparently taken root and broke through from the surface. A much cleaner, square shaped tunnel with concrete walls and ceiling joined the original tunnel at a 120 degree angle, traveling away from the water, deeper inland.

I put the Jeep back in park and hopped out to begin rooting around in the mud again. I could taste the exhaust, but I was only marginally concerned that I might die from carbon monoxide poisoning. I shivered suddenly due to a cool breeze on my wet skin. "See, there's a breeze," I rationalized, sinking my hands still further into the two to three feet of mud and silt that was caking the floor of the tunnel.

I found another coin, and then another. Then I heard my own scream echoing down the dark tunnel. The last coin I found had been clutched in the palm of a very dead hand. I dropped it, deciding that if he wanted it that much, I should let him keep it. So with four gold coins in my muddy jeans pocket, I pulled my spotlight into the Jeep, hit reverse, and tore out of the tunnel into a pouring rain.

I powered down the river, probably doing better than 40 with the current. Before I knew it, I was pulling up onto the launch on our houseboat. I quickly tied off the Jeep and barreled through the back door calling for Joe as loud as I could.


	3. Old Chicago

Joe and I were both in the shower…together. This was odd not only because we had just had a fight and had not made up yet, but because we both had our clothes on. We stood there beneath the warm spray, inspecting the four gold coins. The water in the shower was rising because the mud from my jeans was caking over the drain. Joe absent-mindedly cleared the drain with his toes, never taking his eyes off the coins in his hands.

"You're telling me that within 30 minutes of walking out that door, you found five gold coins and a dead guy, in a hidden tunnel?"

"Yes," I gasped.

"Are you sure he was dead?"

"Very dead," I assured him.

"How dead?" Joe asked in his homicide detective voice.

"The hand was skeletal. No flesh on it," I told him.

"That's pretty dead," he agreed. "In that type of environment, he could have died a week ago or 500 years ago. Only an ME could make a guess on that. Was he wearing clothes?"

"Not that I noticed." Not that I was going to stick around to find out.

"OK, take me to the place you found him. Let's have a look."

"Now?" I asked.

"Now."

I grimaced. "Joe, you aren't a homicide detective anymore. Shouldn't we call the real cops?"

"At this point, my story is that I'm not sure what you saw."

"And you're not sure who this gold belongs to," I added.

"Right. Cupcake, trouble is your middle name. If I don't look into this before making a decision, I just know it will come back to bite me in the ass."

We got in the Jeep and powered back to the curve in the river, down the tributary, and to the weeping willows. I shined the light around and saw that the water was rising fast. Only the top of the archway was visible now.

Joe wiped the water from his face with his hand. "Thank God you got out of there," Morelli breathed. "You could have been trapped and drowned." I thought I could see his hand shaking just a bit.

"No, I would have been fine till low tide. There's an incline in the second tunnel up ahead."

He looked at me for a beat. "Second tunnel? How big?"

"It was long. I couldn't tell how long with just the spot light. But I could feel air coming down it. I remember shivering, like the air was cold."

"Most underground spaces are about 68 degrees (20 degrees Celsius). It was 96 degrees (36 degrees Celsius) today before it started raining," he said. He chewed his lip, thinking.

"So, what do we do now? Who knows when it will be accessible again."

Joe turned to the GPS unit on the dashboard and recorded the GPS coordinates. He plugged them into the mapping software and viewed the area slowly, moving the screen little by little with his finger.

"Describe the tunnel. Which way was it going? How big. Was it a dug out or a cave?"

"It was about 5 foot by 5 foot square and sounded very long. I couldn't drive down it. Concrete walls, floor, and ceiling. Something was on the floor, down the center, but I couldn't be sure what it was. It could have been wiring or plumbing conduits. But I would think those would have been on the walls or ceiling, but they could have fallen down if they were really old."

Joe chewed on his lip a moment, thinking. "Could they have been tracks? Like train tracks, but smaller? For a cart, like a mining cart or a small train like kids ride on at the zoo?"

"Mining in Trenton?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "You think it's a mine shaft?"

"I don't think a mine shaft would be square and lined with concrete. Which way was the tunnel going?"

I pointed towards the north, away from the water.

"Just what are you thinking, Joe?"

"This is Trenton. I'm thinking Mob."

"The Mob?" I suddenly burst out laughing at the images filling my head. Al Capone was sitting all scrunched up with a train engineer's hat perched on his head, blowing the whistle on a little train full of children, chugging down the tunnel into the dark. He didn't look happy.

"Look," he said, pointing to the sprawling mansion 250 feet from the waterway on the GPS map. "During Prohibition in the 1920's, tunnels were dug from waterways to large estates like this one. They had safes at the end of the tunnel for storing booze and guns and whatever else they were brining in for distribution. The cops were paid off. No one was going to bust the prominent socialite who owned the estate. Everyone was happy. Well, almost everyone," he corrected, gesturing towards the remains beyond the archway.

"So, it's not pirate treasure," I said, somewhat disappointed.

"It's not mob gold, Cupcake. It's probably from some private collection."

"It's stolen," I concluded.

"Most likely."

"And we aren't going to get to keep it," I sulked.

"Probably not," he agreed. "Let's just take it one step at a time."

"What's the next step?" I asked, trying not to get my hopes up.

"Let's check with missing persons. We need to figure out who your dead guy is before we report finding the gold."


	4. Missing

When we got back to the houseboat, we engaged in our second non-sexy shower business meeting. This time, however, we were naked. Being naked in the shower with Joe in his cop mode was a first. And it was twice in one day that I had been in the shower with Joe and his focus wasn't on me. When he handed me a towel and left me standing there, dripping in the tub with that stupid, disbelieving look on my face, I knew I was no longer the girlfriend. I was now the wife. The old ball and chain. We were truly married.

Thirty minutes later, we were downtown at the Trenton PD. Joe used to work with Tom Bell, who was still a homicide detective. We sat casually across from Bell in his office. Joe left out certain details like gold, tunnels, and a dead body, letting Bell assume we were just fishing for a client. Sometimes there was reward money for locating a missing person. Bell printed off a list for us and we made small talk for about ten minutes before saying goodbye.

We looked over the list while digging into our favorite Italian meatball subs at Pino's. Richie Biglow was tending bar. It was early and he didn't have any customers, so he brought three beers to our table and joined us. Richie was a member of my team from my bounty hunter days. His contribution was his gift of gab. As a bartender, people would talk to him, and he tended to hear things even before the infamous Berg grapevine.

Richie gave me a big smile as he sat down. "So, what are Trenton's newest PI's up to these days? Are you working a case?"

"Sort of," Joe mumbled around the meatball he was chewing.

"We're working on working on a case," I explained.

"Got nothing, eh?" Richie laughed.

"I'm working on it," Joe growled.

I took the list from Joe and handed it to Richie. "You want to help?" I asked.

"Sure." Richie rubbed his chin stubble as he looked thoughtfully up and down the list. "Well, if you're looking for easy money, you should check Stark Street for little Miss Moneybags here," he said, pointing to a photo of an aristocratic looking young lady, late teens, early 20's. "Margaret Stapleton. She's a bit of a coke head and she can afford to be one for a very long time," he said with an airy whistle. "I expect she's just holed up where no one can find her. When they do, they'll ship her off to rehab again, and then back to some European boarding school," he mused.

"You don't think she's been abducted?" I asked, surprised.

"If she were being held for ransom, the FBI would be involved already. Even if she were dead, smart guys would still ask for a ransom. No, whoever is hiding her is being paid to keep it quiet. I'm certain her parents would pay top dollar for her safe return, no questions asked."

"Good to know," I said, glancing over at Joe. He was just shaking his head in disgust as he reached for his beer.

"The not-so-easy money is on Judge Jack O'Brien. Missing Federal Court Judges tend to get noticed. He's probably dead, but no one has found the body. The wife wants him properly planted." Richie leaned closer to whisper, "because until he is, she can't claim the insurance money. She'll pay, dead or alive."

Joe snorted. "Some of the attorneys been here for a few rounds?" he asked.

"He was having an affair with the court stenographer," Richie explained. "She was pretty broken up about it."

My eyebrows shot up into my forehead. "Do you think the wife found out and killed him?"

"Nah," Richie shook his head. "I doubt the wife even cared. She has been involved with the next door neighbor for 10 years now."

Joe shook his head in disgust again. "That's just not right," he said, trying not to laugh.

"Not everyone is as happily married as you two," Richie said, winking at us as he got up to return to the bar. He finally had a customer. Joe and I just looked at each other.

"So, no Mob guys on the list," I said, shaking off the sudden tension in the air.

"None I know about, but something is up with the missing judge."

"The Irish were gangsters too. It could be O'Brien down there in the tunnel," I said.

"Could be," he said, finishing his beer.

"Gangsters need good lawyers and they buy off judges. Look what happened to Capone. All the laws he broke, and they got him on tax evasion."

"Maybe," Joe said, not committing one way or the other.

"So, what do we do now?" I asked.

"Priorities, Cupcake. We need money that isn't going to be held up waiting for forensic evidence. I'm not comfortable doing anything with the coins yet. I agree with Richie. We need to find Miss Margaret Stapleton.


	5. Meet the Stapletons

The Stapleton Estate with it's terraced gardens and tennis courts was old money, no doubt about it. The Stapleton fortune began with an old printing press and a hand full of political contacts. Today, it was a media empire wielding power and worldwide influence.

The current Mr. Stapleton was a Harvard Law grad, and his wife was the daughter of a prominent foreign diplomat. These were the beautiful people. Smart, rich, physically fit, and politically powerful. Maggie was an only child, and she certainly had a lot to live up to. My insides turned to jelly just thinking about it, and it wasn't even my problem. No wonder she was lying low and doing blow.

We parked in the round drive at the front of the mansion. We were met at the front door by a costumed English butler who proceeded to give us a lesson in etiquette before admitting us. We were each handed a stiff laminated sheet outlining how we were to conduct ourselves inside the manor. I guess it was a good thing Joe called ahead. I could only imagine what would have happened if we had shown up unannounced. They might have turned the dogs on us.

The butler's gloved hands reached out for the cards and smartly placed them under his arm. As he turned with a lofty air to show us in, I turned on my heel and started walking back to the car. But Joe grabbed me around the waist and guided me through the towering double doors. The butler was not amused.

The sound of our footsteps echoed against the marble, which was everywhere. Marble floors, walls, fireplaces, stairs. Tapestries hung on walls as art. We were lead into rather pink and green room with gold accents and told to wait. As we stepped onto the ornate rug, our footsteps were finally silenced. Once the doors were closed behind us, we just stood there, looking up at the crystal chandeliers and wall sconces that lit the room in a way that made it as warm and inviting as any world class museum I had ever visited. Stern painted portraits stared back at us, making sure we continued to feel intimidated.

We sat together on an elegant floral sofa. I stared down at the carpet, tracing the inter-woven floral stems with my eyes, noticing that the branches on the left were somewhat different from the ones on the right, not quite mirrored. And the flowers facing opposite each other were a little off too.

I smiled a Joe. "The rug is screwed up," I said, pointing to the flowers with my toe. "And there are ugly little beads on it." The center of the flowers had what looked like little misshapen, off-white seeds.

"It's hand-made silk, probably several hundreds of years old, Cupcake. They didn't use computers to generate perfection back then. Those imperfections prove it genuine and add to its value. Those beads look like pearls. Natural little pearls are irregular like that. Pearls were was valuable as diamonds because so many pearl divers drowned. Now they're cheap because we can farm them and diving is safe."

I wanted to lift my feet off the rug. "Are you sure?" I gasped.

"We recovered a rug like this once when I was working Vice. It was a lot smaller, no pearls, and only dated to the 1800's. It was worth about $6,000. This carpet probably came from Sotheby's last time the lady of the house hired a decorator. Just don't accept the invitation for tea, and we'll be fine."

I drew a shuddering breath.

Mr. and Mrs. Stapleton arrived 20 minutes later. We rose to meet them as the butler introduced us to the Stapletons. The delay, we were told, was due to our credentials being verified by the staff attorneys. Apparently they ran our fingerprints from the cards the butler gave us. They probably ran DNA too, if they could get it from the car. Joe did not seem surprised. I thought it was downright rude, but of course, I held my tongue, focusing on breathing like Ranger and trying to find a zone, any zone, except the one I was in right now.

"How nice of you to offer your services, Mr. and Mrs. Morelli," Mrs. Stapleton cooed, sitting gracefully on the couch opposite. It was like she was channeling a starlet of the silver screen, maybe Rita Hayworth or Gene Tierney.

Mrs. Stapleton did not appear to be distressed over her missing daughter. I was comparing her serene demeanor to that of my mother when I went missing, which was often enough. My mother tippled, her bottle of booze not so well hidden in a kitchen cabinet. Mrs. Stapleton, I presumed, had the good drugs and a doctor on stand by, Michael Jackson style. That, or she just didn't care.

"Mr. and Mrs. Stapleton," Joe began with a slight bow, since we were instructed not to shake hands. Mr. Stapleton gestured for us to sit, as he sat down beside his wife.

"We would be pleased to help you locate your daughter, Margaret," Joe said. "You know by now that we are well qualified. We understand that you suspect she is somewhere in Trenton. Mrs. Morelli and I grew up in Trenton, and are well acquainted with the areas of Trenton that might offer a temporary refuge to a young lady in her situation."

Mr. Stapleton cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable. He adjusted his tie as he continued. "I must confess, I do not know how you can assist us. We have already sent four men down to this…Stark Street," he said the name in a nasal sort of whine, as if it were too distasteful to say, "but they were unsuccessful. Three are in hospital on life support and one is in transit to his family plot." He looked down his nose at Joe. "What makes you think your endeavors will meet with success where theirs did not?"

"Meaning no disrespect, Mr. Stapleton, but sending former CIA operatives into Lower Stark is certain disaster."

No kidding, I thought.

"Please, explain."

I couldn't help it. I snorted. It was just a little snort, but all eyes were on me now. I did a mental grimace.

"You have something to say?" Mrs. Stapleton asked.

"I'm sorry. It's just," I looked to Joe for help, but he just looked at me with a look that said I should apologize. But I couldn't. "I was just imagining what that must have looked like…if they were former CIA operatives," I said. Morelli closed his eyes, willing me to shut up.

"What do you mean?" Mrs. Stapleton asked, looking confused.

I did a mental head slap, and avoided looking at Joe. "I had a mental image of James Bond, beeping the alarm on his Astin Martin, crossing the street in his impeccable Armani suit, unaware that there were 30 pairs of eyes on him, all of them armed and dangerous and itching to unleash mindless violence and utter chaos from every window and doorway."

"I don't understand," Mrs. Stapleton said, tipping her head slightly to the side.

I was shaking my head, trying hard not to smile. "You don't just walk sedately across Stark Street with an assuming manner, like you have business there. Anyone not flashing the bird and shooting his mouth off would be considered highly suspicious. Someone should have pulled them aside before admitting them to Lower Stark and given them Jersey 101, written in black eyeliner on the back of a Big Mac wrapper." Mrs. Stapleton seemed to understand my reference to the tutorial we received upon arrival. "Without a proper understanding of Italian hand gestures and ghetto slang, not to mention some vital Jersey fashion tips, it's a wonder any of them made it far enough from Stark to be picked up by an ambulance."

The color drained from Mrs. Stapleton's face. "What do you mean they made it far enough to be picked up?" I noticed the color draining from Mr. Stapleton's face too. Apparently he had not informed his wife that their daughter was in mortal danger.

"Ambulances don't respond to calls to Lower Stark. If someone gets hurt, they have to find their own transportation to the hospital," I explained. "If there's a fire, the place will have to burn itself out. Firemen don't respond. Police hardly ever respond, unless they have a personal reason or a death wish." I glanced meaningfully over at Joe. He was trying to put his cop face on to hide both his amusement and his aggravation.

Without another word, the Stapletons rose from their seats and left the room. Joe's lips were firmly pressed together, and his eyes were shut tight. He was trying not to yell at me in a full-on Italian rant until we made it to the car. I moved a little farther down the couch, giving him a few more inches of space.

We waited silently for the butler to return to show us out. Instead, a man in a tailored black business suit entered, offering Morelli his business card. It read Justin Sedgwick Thiebold, Esquire. He was the in-house attorney, literally. Mr. Thiebold, presented Joe with a contract, which he read through, slowly, twice. The attorney stood straight backed, arms folded behind his back, looking oddly relaxed, like he could stand there for hours. I wondered for a moment if there was any chance his father was the butler.

My butt was going to sleep. I couldn't sit still any longer. The Stapletons were gone and the butler wasn't on patrol, so I wandered toward the double doors overlooking the terraced gardens that lead down and then back up a hill to a marble domed gazebo.

"I can't even imagine growing up in a place like this," I said. "It's like a royal palace."

"Margaret did not grow up here," Mr. Thiebold, announced unexpectedly. I must have looked shocked, because he added, "Stapleton children attend the most exclusive boarding schools."

I shrugged. "Sure, I know." I looked back out the window. "But, for holidays, I'll be this place was magnificent."

"The holidays are spent in the Hamptons, or abroad, Madam."

I turned to look at the knowledgeable attorney. "So, Maggie never lived here at all? She's never stayed here? Has she ever even been here?"

"No," he replied. "Margaret," he said her name slowly, correcting my misuse of her name, "has not been a guest of this house, but she was expected."

"I don't understand. Where was she when she disappeared? I assumed, being close to Trenton, that she disappeared from here."

"Margaret had been summoned from school to attend a funeral. The grandmother recently passed."

"She was on her way here when she disappeared?"

"Yes."

"Why do you believe she might be on Stark Street? How do you even know if she's in Trenton?"

"We don't like to speak of it."

"Well, you want that girl back, you are going to have to speak of it," I insisted.

Justin Sedgwick Thiebold, Esquire, scowled a little. "I will disclose more after the contract is duly executed," he decided.

Morelli flicked the pen across the bottom of the document and he handed it over to me for my signature. I didn't even look at it. I just signed it. Then Joe handed over the document for inspection.

Satisfied, Mr. Thiebold continued. "She apparently hit the drive in the back of the head, dumped him by the side of the road, and drove away in the limousine. The limousine was later located at a dealership on Stark Street. That is our only lead at this time. She has disposed of all safety monitoring devices."

"So, these four guys never found out where she was, at all," I clarified.

"They were injured making inquiries regarding the limousine," he admitted.

"What is the name of the 'dealership'?" I asked.

Justin Sedgwick Thiebold, Esquire, could hardly bear to form the words. "Uncle Mickey's Gently Used Cars."

Right on cue, the butler reappeared in the doorway. The attorney nodded to indicate that our business was concluded.

I just smiled. "We'll be in touch," I told him, handing him my card as we walked out.


	6. A Coin By Any Other Name

We were silent in the car until we were back on the highway, headed for Trenton.

"I'm sorry, Joe," I whispered, looking out the side window, not facing him.

"That wasn't the way I would have preferred to handle it, but you did get us the contract, Cupcake. I'm not sure I would have been able to convince them," he conceded. I felt his warm fingers slide under my hand. Pulling it towards his lips, he kissed the back of my hand.

"You've missed out on a lot while you were working homicide, Joe." I squeezed his hand gently. "You only heard the stories after something exploded or when the body was already at the morgue. This time you're along for the ride." I smiled at him.

"Glad to be here, Steph." He turned to me, eyes serious. "I'm beginning to understand what Ranger was trying to tell me."

I narrowed my eyes at him. Ranger was a former Army Ranger, Special Forces, who used to work for my cousin, Vinnie, as a Bond Enforcement Agent. Ranger had skills, and he was sexy as hell. Cuban American, with mocha-latte skin, shiny black hair, smoldering dark eyes, and more testosterone than should be allowed by law, Ranger was my friend and mentor in the bounty hunting business. He had also been my lover, just once, while Joe and I were in an off-again phase of our on-again, off-again courtship. I wasn't sure Joe knew about me and Ranger, and I thought it prudent to keep that little gold nugget all to myself.

"What exactly did Ranger say?" I asked warily.

"He said you were amazingly lucky, if not disciplined. And that you are always a good time." He smiled cryptically.

"He didn't say that."

"Which part?" Joe baited me.

"He didn't say I'm always a good time," I muttered under my breath.

"No, he didn't," Joe admitted, giving my hand a playful squeeze. "He said you never disappoint. He said you always brighten his day."

"He does say that a lot," I agreed.

"I guess I'm just learning to appreciate his point of view," Joe said, with a rueful smile. "I'm sorry it took me so long to do this, Cupcake. I wasted a lot of time. But we're together now, and that's what counts."

"I love you, Joe," I said, meaning every word.

"I love you too, Steph," he said. I took it as an apology for our fight this morning.

"What do we do now?" I asked, suddenly uncomfortable with the heaviness of expressing our emotions.

"You tell me. It's your show." He was surrendering control of the investigation? Holy cow! He really did love me. I mentally marked off the tally against Joe for leaving me dripping in the shower earlier.

"Well, what I would normally do is pick up Lula and head down to Stark Street. Everyone down on Stark probably still thinks you're a cop. Maybe you shouldn't ride along on this one, just for now."

Joe didn't answer. He was counting to ten.

"Should I call her?" I asked gently.

Joe blew out a sigh. "See if she's available. I can drop you off at Melvin's. I want to get these coins identified. Maybe we can get more done if we split up."

"Divide and conquer," I agreed as I dialed Lula.

"Hey, girl. What's up? You and Officer Hottie back from the Love Boat yet?"

"Yes, we're on dry land. And you have to stop calling him 'Officer Hottie'. Just call him Joe."

Joe was trying not to smile, shaking his head at us.

"Lula, do you have time to help me with a case? I need to talk to Uncle Mickey about a limo he recently acquired."

"Say what? You thinking about diversifying? I would still be on board for Lula's Limos. I have connections in this town, girl. We could make it work, I'm telling you, there's a niche for services."

"No. No side business. I just need to find out what he can tell me about the girl that was driving the limo. I need to know who he bought it from."

"Dang. Well, okay. We're still pretty busy here at the studio, but we can run down to Stark on my lunch hour. Come by at noon. You're buying me lunch, right?"

My wallet was a little light. "Um, actually, until I find our client, I'll have to owe you one," I told her.

"Oh, so it's like that, already? Dang, girl."

"I'll see you at noon," I told her, and hung up.

"Well?" Joe prompted.

"Noon," I told him.

"Guess you're with me, then. I want to get a not-so-accurate but completely confidential appraisal of these coins."

"Who do you have in mind?"

"Your friendly neighborhood pawn broker, Emilio.

When I needed cash bad enough, I sold things through Emilio. He didn't pay top dollar, and I knew I was getting gypped, but he didn't ask any questions and it was fast. I didn't usually buy back my stuff, either.

The little bell on the door signaled our entrance, and Emilio immediately appeared in the office doorway behind the counter. His smile quickly melted as he saw me with Joe.

"Officer Morelli," he stammered. "What a surprise."

Obviously Joe made quite an impression last time he was in the shop.

"Emilio," Joe nodded acknowledgement.

"Yo," I said, giving him a little finger waive.

"Stephanie Plum," he said, still cautious. "What can I do for you today?"

Joe and I approached the counter. Joe pulled a folded handkerchief out of his pocket.

"What do you know about coin appraisal?" Morelli asked.

"Uh, a little," Emilio stammered. "You have a coin you want me to look at?"

"I have. But I need your complete discretion on this. Do you understand?"

"Oh, certainly. No questions asked. That's my motto," he assured Morelli, then looked abashed, realizing who he was talking to. He still assumed Morelli was a cop. Guess he wasn't up on the latest.

"Fine," Morelli said, unfolding the handkerchief on the counter to reveal the four shiny gold coins. "I need you to identify what kind of coin this is."

Emilio's eyes grew wide, until they were bugging out. "Um." His fingers hovered over the coins, as if he were afraid to lay a finger on them. "I will have to get a reference book if you want me to identify these."

"You haven't seen coins like this around here before?" Joe asked.

"Are you kidding? I'd never forget a coin like that." His hands were shaking as he wiped his suddenly sweaty brow. "I'll be right back." He disappeared into the back as Joe and I exchanged glances.

Moments later, he re-appeared with a large volume titled Numismatics Today. It looked like today had come and gone. The book was tattered, faded, and the binding was not holding. Emilio flipped through the index, narrowing his search to foreign coins, ancient coins, gold, and flipping to a section in the back of the book. The photos were not even in color. He scanned the pages, flipping through them quickly, until his breath caught. He looked down at the coins on the counter and back to the coins in the book. Finally, he turned the book towards us, pointing to the description of our coins.

The page was titled, "Royal Coinage: Spanish/Portuguese Trade Routes". The caption read: A 500 Reais gold coin, King Sebastian of Portugal (1557-1578).

I could feel my mouth hanging open. I glanced at Joe. His mouth was closed, and his jaw was tight, like he was grinding his teeth.

"What are these coins valued at?"

"These coins are so rare, they're worth whatever someone is willing to pay for them."

"Make a guess," Joe pressed.

"In the neighborhood of $1,000 to $1,500 each," he said. "But in good condition, and as a set of four, probably more. A lot more. Collectors like to wear fine jewelry made with coins like these. Finding a set in the same condition is extremely rare."

I felt my knees beginning to shake. How did coins like this end up in Trenton?

"What was the coin worth when it was new?" I asked.

Emilio flipped through the pages to the beginning of the chapter, reading for a few moments. "The Spanish arrived in South America in search of silver and gold. They harvested the precious metals from Mexico, Bolivia, and Peru. The gold was struck into doubloons, and the silver into pieces of eight. A doubloon was equal to two months pay for a sailor. Two pieces of eight was worth a piece of livestock." Emilio put book down. "These aren't Spanish doubloons. These weigh half as much, or maybe a little less. So, each of these coins are worth roughly a month's wages for a skilled peasant."

I did a quick mental calculation and decided they had held their value pretty well. There was about four months of my usual pay as a BEA lying on the counter in front of us, if I had four very good months in a row, which almost never happened. And I knew where there was another coin. I felt that greedy Scrooge McDuck inside me focus on how to get that coin. I knew I wouldn't be able to rest until I found that coin and the rest of the treasure, assuming there was more treasure.

I couldn't help wondering if the hand I had taken the coins from was the same hand that worked for this pay. What was that man doing in that tunnel? Was he hiding or guarding buried treasure? Was he trying to dig it up when the water came in and drowned him? If he were murdered by the Mob, why didn't the murderer take the coins? Could he really have been there for hundreds of years? Maybe it really was pirate gold after all.

Scrooge and I thought it over, and chose to believe it was true, at least for now.


	7. A Picture is Worth 1,000 Dollars

At noon, we rolled to a stop in front of Mel's Portrait Studio. There were two guys on ladders trying to secure the awning advertising the new business. Knowing Lula was probably offering suggestions on the name, I was relieved he hadn't named it Pickle Portraits or Melvin's Memories.

"I know you don't want to hear this, but I don't want you going to Stark Street without me," Joe said, his tone already defeated.

"How can I get information if you're standing right there? Uncle Mickey might not be as cooperative."

"I know you're right," he said, "But I don't have to like it." He paused for a moment. "When you're working with Ranger, does he let you go down to Stark Street alone?"

I thought about it. "Sometimes he just gives me a gun. Sometimes he goes with me. But Ranger is respected on the street. No one messes with Ranger." OK, almost no one. There were plenty of crazy people down on Stark. "And no on blows up Ranger's vehicles when he's around." I did another mental grimace. There had been that one time, but I wasn't going to think about it. Regardless of ownership, vehicles blew up with alarming frequency when it was just me and Lula out on the town, and I could see that Joe wasn't about to let us borrow his car.

"I don't want you partnering with Ranger anymore," he growled. "Surely there's someone else you can take with you for protection."

"Who do you have in mind?"

"My cousin, Mooch, is the first to come to mind, but I'm not sure he's quite what we need." He was flipping through the virtual mug shots in his mind, trying to find someone Stark Street would find intimidating.

"Kenny or Buckey?" he asked, referring to the large firefighters who were also members of my team. The problem with Kenny and Buckey was that they were always on call. They had already left me and Grandma Mazur stranded on Stark Street once, and a death did result. I wasn't in a hurry to try that one again.

"Remember the incident at Blue Fish?," I muttered, reminding Morelli.

"Oh, yeah. Scratch Kenny and Buckey," he agreed.

"I don't think intimidation is really what we're after here, Joe. What we need is information. We need someone crazy enough to belong on Stark Street, so no attention is drawn to us."

"Someone crazy," Joe repeated slowly, ominously.

A rapping on my window made me jump. It was Lula. I powered the window down.

Lula is a self-assured black woman with loads of attitude. Today her hair was light brown with lots of spiral curls spinning out in all directions from her head like a well-organized afro. Lula's size 16 body was squeezed into a size 10 body suit. A black mini-skirt circling her middle was struggling to break up the illusion that a large jungle cat had attempted to swallow her whole and failed.

"Hey, girl," Lula said. "Morelli." She smiled at Joe, almost flirty.

Lula has a certain sensitivity to cops. She claims to be allergic, an after effect from her days as a Stark Street ho. When she hears sirens coming, she takes off, stranding me wherever we happen to be. I had been wondering how long it would take her to get over her allergic reaction to Joe once his cop days were officially behind him. I squelched a smile. I was guessing she was over it.

Joe was staring straight ahead, out the windshield, giving the impression he was ever vigilant. In truth, he was avoiding eye contact with the overflowing cleavage Lula was displaying as she hung in my window. The fabric of her leopard print spandex was riding dangerously low, snagged on her chocolate brown nipples. I should probably have taken offense, but Joe had that effect on women.

I may have failed to mention it earlier, but Joe Morelli is movie star handsome. His straight black Italian hair falls over his eyes in careless perfection. His hair was growing out just a little now, touching his collar in the back, tapered over his ears along the sides. And he always has a sexy five-o-clock shadow going on, even in the morning. As if that wasn't enough, he has the finest backside in Trenton. When he pushes his sleeves up his forearms, I still have to fan myself. So, I didn't really blame Lula for looking, as long as she didn't touch. And I knew she wouldn't. Rumor had it, she had been spotted with Ranger's number two, Tank. And believe me, it would take a big man like Tank to handle Lula.

"I'm not comfortable with this," Joe growled.

"Not comfortable with what?" Lula asked, pulling back from the window a little.

"With the two of us going down to Stark Street alone," I explained.

"Shoot, we go down there all the time," Lula told Joe. "It's no big deal."

"You two get in trouble down there all the time," Joe retorted.

"Well, not every time," Lula said defensively.

"Joe would like to go with us, but I'm afraid Uncle Mickey might not be as forthcoming," I said.

"That's a good point," Lula agreed. "Maybe you can put on a disguise," Lula suggested.

Joe shook his head. "Not gonna happen."

I could just imagine Lula trying to fit Joe into one of her size 10 outfits. I busted up laughing, and that got me a dirty look from Joe.

"Hmph," Lula barked. "I see how you are."

"Lula, do you think Tank would go with us?" I asked, hopefully.

"Not today. He's guarding a witness in a safe house," she said, without missing a beat.

"How do you know that?" I asked pointedly.

"Tank and I hooked up after your wedding," she said with a guilty smile. "That man is fine. But he's unmovable when he's on the clock at Rangeman."

"I understand," I said. "Well, I guess it's just you and me," I told her, getting out of the car.

"We could take your Grandma with us," Lula suggested. "She's inside with her beau, Carl Coglin."

I could hear Joe's mental screaming. I didn't even need to turn around.

"Probably not," I told her quickly, speaking loudly enough for Joe's benefit.

"Well, she'll be disappointed. I told her we were going to check out a limo, and she said she'd always wanted to ride in a limo, and she was hoping Uncle Mickey might give us the keys for a test drive."

Now I was the one mentally screaming.

"We're not going for a test drive. We're just asking a few questions, and then we're leaving," I told her.

"You're no fun. Officer Hottie, I mean, Joe, isn't a very good influence on you, if you ask me," Lula complained.

Joe turned the engine over and took off. I guess he'd heard enough. I didn't even know where he was off to. We hadn't made plans to meet up later. I guessed I would just call him when we were done.

I followed Lula inside Melvin's studio. It was all done up with lighting umbrellas and backgrounds. Samples of his work were framed nicely on the walls. The smell of paint and new carpeting was still present, but not overwhelming. I could see Melvin adjusting a camera. He was taking a photo of Grandma and Carl together with a woodsy background, like they were standing arm in arm in the woods. I thought a pose of Carl holding out a dead squirrel on a shovel and Grandma looking down on it inquisitively would have been more realistic. But I squelched the thought.

When Melvin saw me, he got teary eyed and walked towards me with arms outstretched for a hug. I'm not really the hugging sort, so I just stood there awkwardly while he embraced me.

"Hi," I said, trying to sound chipper, hoping he wasn't going to cry on me.

"Steph. You have no idea," he started, unable to get the words out. "Thank you. Thank you," he whispered, wiping his eyes.

I turned to look questioningly at Lula.

"This studio is only possible because sales of your wedding antics sold like hotcakes," Lula told me.

"I was just a mall photographer with no experience. It was better than selling shoes." Melvin paused, eyes closed. "Do you know how demeaning it is to be over forty and still making minimum wage at the mall?" I could honestly say I had some idea.

When I first met Melvin Pickle, he looked like a middle-aged, blonde version of Harry Potter in his round rimmed glasses. He had been busted for inappropriate behavior at the Multiplex. He was living with his mother after his divorce. It's hard for someone like Melvin to live down a thing like that. Shortly after I apprehended him for being FTA, he came to work at the bond's office, doing the filing. With Lula and Connie around to give him perspective, he snapped out of it pretty quickly.

"Tell her how many of those tapes you sold so far," Lula prodded him.

"We've sold 1,240 copies as of yesterday. We made it available from our web-site. People can create and account and pay by credit card. I don't even have to man the store to make money anymore," Melvin gushed.

"We're charging $50 per download. And they can't be copied without permission. Tank had that Silvio computer geek from Rangeman help us secure the downloads so the videos don't get put on YouTube. Anyone who wants to own a copy of that footage has to pay for it. That's $62,000, girl. You hear what I'm sayin'? And that's just one video. We got more being uploaded daily."

"Lula was trying to talk Tank into helping us out with a Rangeman Calendar shoot, but Ranger said no."

"I don't think Ranger wants his guys being recognized on the street," I said. I had to agree with Ranger. It was a safety issue. It would be hard to apprehend a fugitive in a bar while ten women were lining up to steal a kiss and cop a feel. Talk about a distraction. That could get a guy killed. Besides, tough guys don't like it when women try to stick ones in their underwear. They like to be the ones handing out the singles. Then again, I suspected most of the Rangemen didn't wear underwear. I shook my head, trying to clear the images.

"Too bad. Those sales would have made your video proceeds look like chump change." I had to agree with her on that one. I knew I'd buy a copy, even at twice the price.

"You should ask Kenny and Buckey. Firemen are hot," I suggested.

"Everyone's got a firemen calendar. No one's got Rangeman," Grandma chimed in.

"You want rare? You should do a Hottest Seniors Over 60 shoot," Carl said, nudging Grandma.

"Aren't you the one!" Grandma giggled. Everyone else shivered involuntarily.

Crazy Carl Coglin regularly made me shudder. He was self-employed as a Rogue Taxidermist. He stuffed road-kill, and he spiced it up a little by adding animatronics or explosives, as needed.

"Hey, Carl, what's new?" I asked.

"I'm going to make a KILLING this Christmas!" Carl announced. Taxidermy humor. "I have been making Fowl Foliage brand Artificial Christmas Trees almost exclusively. I take birds of various sizes and prepare them with wings outstretched, tails back, feet forward. Then I glue the pegs to their feet and wah-lah!" The silence seemed to indicate that we were all confused. Carl was unfazed. "The tree comes in a box. You assemble it just like any other artificial tree. Start with the largest birds on the bottom and work your way up to the smallest birds at the top. Fluff the feathers a little with my patented feather preener, and add lights and bobbles. It's plush, and no one else will have one like yours."

I was sure of that.

When I was little, I loved to lie under our Christmas tree, looking up through the branches at the myriad of lights. When I tried to imagine a Fowl Foliage Christmas tree, all I could see were dozens of bird butts pointed right at me. I shivered again.

"The only problem we found in testing was that dogs and cats just won't leave it alone," Grandma said. "We tried spraying the birds with a concoction of Rosemary as an all-natural repellent, but it didn't work. I think it just added flavor. So, now we're treating the trees with cayenne pepper. A dog's first whiff will be his last, guaranteed."

I could just imagine opening a box full of dead foul coated in red hot pepper dust. I could imagine the smell of burning feathers and hot pepper just before the monstrosity burst into flame from the heat of traditional Christmas lights. I mentally closed the box, tossing it out the front door of our houseboat and watching it sink below the waterline before closing the door.

Returning to the conversation, I did my best to smile. "I'm glad things are going so well." I motioned to Lula. "Well, we've only got an hour, Lula, so we had better get going." I turned on my heel and started for the door.

"Hold on," Grandma called after me. "Carl and I are going with you. We want to see that fancy Limo."

Damn. "I'm not test driving the limo," I told her. "We're just asking Uncle Mickey a few questions, and we're coming right back. That's all. I don't even know if he still has the limo. It might not even be there." I wasn't fibbing. For all I knew, it was already in little pieces at the chop shop.

"That's okay," Carl said, grabbing a bowling bag and hurrying after us with Grandma in tow. "It'll give me a chance to try out my newest invention. Bird's Eye View."

I grimaced. It wasn't a mental grimace. It was a full on grimace.

"What's Bird's Eye View?" Lula wanted to know.

"You'll see," was all Carl would say as he lead the way out the front door.

Oh Boy.


	8. Uncle Mickey's Gently Used Cars

I was surprised to find that Carl and Grandma were driving Grandma's Buick. This was surprising because Grandma doesn't have a driver's license due to her lead foot. It wasn't a surprise given that Carl drives a hearse with a deep freezer in back, and men love Big Blue. She's a gleaming 1953 powder blue Buick, complete with portholes and white wall tires. I have a fondness for the Buick in spite of myself. She may be a gas guzzling behemoth that will never occupy a single compact parking space, but Big Blue appeared to be impervious to the car curse. Nothing touched Big Blue. I was flooded with a much-needed sense of relief as we barreled towards Stark Street.

Uncle Mickey was a tall black man with bright red dreadlocks. Despite his coifed doo, he looked like he hadn't shaved in a month. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot, most likely from smoking weed. I knew times were hard on Uncle Mickey between his unfortunate problems with the ponies and the fact that his apartment building had recently burned down. I suspected Uncle Mickey had been sleeping in one of the conversion vans he kept out back.

"Hey, Uncle Mickey," Lula called to him as we approached the office.

Uncle Mickey studied Lula, his eyes bugging out a little as he tried to drag his eyes away from her chest. He looked me over, apparently not impressed with my chest, and settled his eyes back on Lula. Then recognition kicked in.

"Oh, it's you," He said, remembering us from the apartment fire. "Come to finish the job?"

"Hey," Lula barked. "We had nothing to do with that fire, and you know it."

"You were there. That's what I know. I read the papers. The Bombshell Bounty Hunter strikes again."

"Shows what you know. We ain't bounty hunters no more," Lula told him. "Stephanie's a PI now. She married Joe Morelli, and he done quit the force. They're independent contractors. And I'm working for Mel's Portrait Studio on Hamilton Avenue. I'm a business professional, you know. I'm a Scheduling Coordinator."

Uncle Mickey scoffed. "Isn't that title a little redundant?"

"What do you mean? I schedule, and I coordinate."

Uncle Mickey looked her up and down again. "Shoot, yeah, woman. You sure can coordinate. Shame you ain't a ho no more, or I'd let you schedule me, too."

This was not going in the direction I had hoped. I looked around to see where Grandma was, and realized both Grandma and Carl were gone. Damn.

"Grandma!" I called.

"Over here!" I could hear her as if from a distance. She was sitting behind the wheel of a shiny black limousine, making vroom-vroom noises.

"I'm sorry," I apologized to Uncle Mickey. "Grandma is a little impulsive at times." I did a mental head slap when I realized that admission had peaked Uncle Mickey's interest. He loved people with impulse control problems. Those are the only people dumb enough to buy a used car on Stark Street.

"No problem," he said. "You want the keys? Take it for a test drive?"

"NO!" I cried. "No keys! We're just here to ask a couple of questions."

Uncle Mickey was clearly disappointed. But now that he was aware of Grandma's impulse problem, I knew he wasn't going to let us off the lot until he'd handed Grandma the keys to that limo.

I ran towards Grandma. "Where's Carl?" I asked, panting a little.

"He's testing his Bird's Eye View," she said, pointing to the rooftop of the business across the street.

My stomach lurched. Carl had climbed up an exterior fire escape and was securing what appeared to be a large, stuffed crow to the ledge facing the car lot. I held my breath as I watched Carl climb back down and cross the street. Carl had a little arthritis in one knee, so he sort of hobbled a little, giving the impression that he might have been a little drunk. And he was crazy. He exuded a crazy vibe that those 30 pairs of eyes watching us must surely have picked up on.

"She's up and running," Carl told Grandma. "How's she look?"

"Natural," Grandma assured him. "If I didn't now it was there, I wouldn't pay any attention to it whatsoever."

"What is it?" I asked, not sure I wanted to know, but knowing I had better find out.

"It's something I started working on after we helped you and Morelli out last month. It's your multi-purpose backup, for when you have to work alone, but you need backup."

"Come again?"

"It's really something," Grandma chimed in. "It has a video camera in it. The camera follows the remote, so the camera stays on you. You don't have to do anything." She reached out and took what looked like a smart phone from Carl and handed it to me. "Just push the camera button," she told me.

I pressed the camera button, and I could see a wide-angle shot of us standing in the car lot. I zoomed in, and the camera zoomed right in on us.

"The feed is transmitted electronically to the Internet site set up just for your bird. If you want, that Ranger fellow can watch streaming video right in his control room, or from his phone," Carl said.

"That's amazing!" I told him. "Is there audio, too?"

Carl looked at me like I was stupid. "No, I couldn't figure that part out," he said sarcastically. "Of course there's audio. What do you take me for, a crack pot inventor?"

I didn't say anything.

"That's not even the best part," Grandma said, taking the phone from me.

But before she could show me more, Uncle Mickey slipped into the other side of the limo, sliding the keys into the ignition and turning over the engine. "Wanna take it for a spin?" he asked.

My eyes shot daggers at him, but he just smiled at me. Payback is a bitch.

We all piled in the limo with Grandma behind the wheel. Uncle Mickey was in back sandwiched between me and Lula.

"Hang on, everybody!" Grandma called out as she dropped the gear shifter into drive and hit the gas. We launched out of the lot and onto Stark Street. Junkies were looking up from their cardboard boxes as we zoomed past.

My seat belt was already on, but I tightened it some more. We took a corner on two wheels. When the limo slammed back down, Grandma commented, "She handles real nice. What kind of gas mileage does she get?"

Uncle Mickey turned to look at me, fear registering on his face.

"I told you no keys, but would you listen?"

"You have my full attention," he said. "How do we make her stop?"

"How much gas is in the tank?" I asked.

"About five minutes," he said. We braced as Grandma ran a red light. "Oh God," Uncle Mickey wailed. "We're all gonna die!"

"Don't be so melodramatic," Grandma said.

"Maybe I can take your mind off it," I suggested. Uncle Mickey indicated he was listening. "We stopped by to ask you a few questions about this limo. What can you tell me about the person or persons who sold it to you?"

"Anything," Uncle Mickey whispered. "Just make her stop."

"Grandma," I called. "Can you please pull over for a second? I think Uncle Mickey's going to be sick."

"What?" Grandma called back.

"Pull over."

Too late, I realized we were approaching the on-ramp for Route 1. Grandma pulled over to the left, into the exit ramp facing oncoming traffic.

"No!" I cried. "Pull over to the curb! Uncle Mickey's sick!"

"We're on the freeway. There's no curb here. He'll just have to wait till we get to the next exit!" she called back.

I could hear Lula doing her best to recite the Lord's Prayer.

I sat back, and did a palms up to Uncle Mickey. "I tried. Just three more minutes, right?"

"Give or take," He whimpered.

"So, what can you tell me about this limo?"

"I bought it from a woman."

My pulse quickened, which was saying something, given the situation we were in.

"Did you get a name? Can you describe her?"

"Didn't get a name. Hot blonde. Long legs. Gorgeous." Mickey was panting, and I wasn't sure if it was due to the memory of the woman or if he was hyperventilating.

"What did you give her for the limo," I asked.

"Ten-thousand," he said. "I can't believe I gave her ten-thousand." He leaned over and heaved all over my shoes.

I held my breath while I rolled the window down. I willed myself not to throw up too. Focus, I told myself. This may be your only chance to question Uncle Mickey.

"Was there anyone else with the woman, or was she alone?" I asked.

"There were two men with her. But she did all the talking."

"What did the men look like?"

We were zooming around cars, horns were honking, and every driver was flashing Grandma the bird. I could see the exit approaching, but we were going the wrong way to exit.

"The men," I pressed. "Describe them."

Uncle Mickey was sinking lower and lower into his seat. "Big guys. Muscle. White. Thirties."

"Hair?"

"One bald with a handlebar mustache. One had short dark hair and his jaw had been broken, you know, real big and square."

"That's good. That's helpful," I told him. "What were they driving when they left?"

"A champagne Caddy."

Great. Try finding a champagne Caddy in Trenton. There are only about two thousand of them.

"Did you get the plate?" I asked hopefully.

"No."

"Did thy leave the title to the limo?" I asked.

"No."

"Did you see which way they went? Did they say anything about where they were going?"

"No. I don't know. I don't care. Look, I'm an honest business man, just trying to make a living, here."

I didn't argue.

"These signs they put up are backwards. Those idiots," Grandma was complaining. "I think we just missed the exit. Hold on," she told us, turning the wheel sharply to the left while she mashed on the brakes.

Before I could respond, Lula had slid right over Uncle Mickey, landing squarely in my lap. All the air was expelled from my lungs.

"Sorry," Lula said, struggling to right herself as the limo surged forward again, now facing towards the exit ramp.

"No problem," Uncle Mickey said, happy for the first time since we left the lot.

"Get your hands off," Lula told him, slapping his hands away as he tried to help her scoot back across his lap again.

I gave Lula's hind end a shove and she landed back in her own seat.

I sucked in a deep breath. "Why didn't you have your seat belt on?"

"I didn't want to crease my outfit," Lula said, checking to make sure none of the puke got on her four-inch leopard print pumps.

"When I woke up this morning, I didn't see this coming," Uncle Mickey said, mostly to himself.

"Grandma, we need to head back now," I called out.

"OK," she answered, angling across a crowded market parking lot, hopping the curb of a car wash on the corner, and careening through another busy intersection. The next intersection would be Stark. At this speed, we were only about one minute away.

"One more minute," I told Uncle Mickey. He smiled at me, like that was good news. What could possibly happen in one minute, right?

Grandma cranked the wheel as we entered the intersection. A car swerved to miss us and sideswiped a telephone pole. The driver's side door was scratched up, maybe dented a little, but the car was still going. They were most likely insured. And most people would prefer to file a hit and run claim over chasing an offender down Stark Street. I turned back around in my seat, waiving to two drunks who stood from their bench to give us an Italian salute as we passed.

Grandma brought the limo to a screeching halt in the car lot. Dust was settling all around us as we piled out. Lula sat down heavily in a lawn chair by the office. Uncle Mickey thought about kissing the ground, then thought better of it. He settled for hanging on to the back bumper while he puked again on a dead shrub.

"That's a real fine automobile you have there," Grandma told him.

"Yeah, he croaked, ripping the keys out of her hand. "You want to buy it?" he asked.

"Nah, I guess not. I was thinking it would be nice and roomy, like Carl's hearse, but I don't usually need to seat more than two or three. This baby seats eight to ten. I was thinking we could drive it to viewings, then after, we could load up and take it out to the clubs. But I don't want the girls at Clara's to be thinking I'm all uppity."

"They wouldn't think that," Uncle Mickey argued. "They'd say you had class. I can tell that about you. You're a woman with refined tastes."

"Yeah. It would make me feel refined too. But, if I did buy it, I'd have to bribe the gal down at the DMV to get my license back."

Uncle Mickey blanched. "You don't have a driver's license?" he asked, incredulous.

"Nope. They took it away from me, again. Can you believe that?"

Before Uncle Mickey could respond, the car with the dented door came roaring up in the lot. I couldn't believe my eyes. It was Eddie DeChooch. If there was an old man crazier than Carl Coglin, it was DeChooch.

"Choochie! I thought you were doing time," Grandma told him. "When did they let you out?"

"I busted out," he said, waiving a gun in her face. "And I'm not going back in. You know what that means?"

"Not exactly," Grandma admitted.

"It means that when some crazy old broad sideswipes me, I can't file a police report. It means, I'm gonna take it out of someone's hide."

"That's terrible," Grandma said. "Who sideswiped you?"

"You did, just now!" DeChooch bellowed.

"Hey, now!" Carl said, coming to stand beside Grandma. "You can't talk to Edna that way. She didn't hit you. Look." He pointed to the limo. "Not a scratch on it."

"Yeah, because I dove out of the way and hit a phone pole," DeChooch countered, pointing at his damaged car.

"Everyone knows you're blind as a bat, Choochie," Grandma told him. "Don't blame me if your reflexes are too slow these days."

"Too slow! Too slow!" he repeated. "I'll show you too slow!" And he aimed the gun at the limo and opened fire.

Uncle Mickey dove behind Lula's chair. Lula was hiding behind her big purse, trying to become invisible.

When the clip was empty, DeChooch popped another clip in. He walked around the limo, continuing to fire, taking out all of the windows, the side mirrors, the rear view mirror, and all four tires. When he was done, he put the gun back in his holster.

"Are you done?" Grandma asked, unimpressed with DeChooch's violent display of temper.

"I think we're about even," he said, cocky as ever.

Carl just shook his head at him. "Come on Edna. Let's go." He lead the way over to Big Blue and opened the passenger side door for Grandma.

DeChooch turned violet with rage. "That's not even your car?"

"I just took it out for a test drive, but I decided I didn't want it after all. Just like you."

DeChooch started towards Grandma, but Carl didn't look the least bit alarmed.

I turned to Lula. "Give me your gun! Where's your gun?"

Lula began rooting around in her bag, but I could see that it would be too late.

"You don't want to do that," Carl warned him.

DeChooch raised his gun, but his attention was diverted by a red dot dancing on the center of his chest.

"What the…" DeChooch turned to run, but there was a pop, and DeChooch face planted into the sick Uncle Mickey left behind the limo. I felt my stomach lurch.

"Is he dead?" I asked Carl, who had started chuckling. "What happened?"

"My eye-in-the-sky just backed us up, darlin'." Carl tossed me the cell phone that connected to Bird's Eye View.

I looked down at DeChooch. There was a small yellow tranquilizer dart sticking out of his back. I reached down and pulled it free.

"Oh my God, Carl! He's an old man. You could have killed him!" I yelled.

"He's an escaped fugitive with a gun, and he's deranged. I don't think I'll be convicted. Besides, no one saw anything." He was right there. No one ever saw anything on Stark.

I picked up DeChooch's gun and tossed it into a barrel full of tar-like motor oil. I rummaged around in the office, returning with a large zip tie. I zip-tied DeChooch's hands behind his back. While I was doing that, Carl ran across the street to recover his Bird's Eye View. He was back in less than two minutes.

"There's probably a reward for his return," I told Uncle Mickey. "Maybe you can recoup your ten-thou."

We all piled into Big Blue as Uncle Mickey threw up again at the realization that he was going to have to choose between dealing with the police or untying DeChooch.

"Good seeing you again," Lula called to Uncle Mickey as we backed out of the lot.


	9. History Comes Alive

By the time we arrived back at Melvin's, Connie was back from her lunch break. Connie was one-hundred-percent Italian, through and through. She was like Betty Boop with Jersey attitude. She had a shadow of a mustache on her upper lip, and long manicured nails. And just like Lula, Connie was always packing heat. My heat was home in my cookie jar.

"What happened to you?" Connie asked me, looking down at the sick crusting on my sneakers.

"It wasn't my fault. It was Uncle Mickie. Grandma's driving style didn't agree with him," I told her.

"Understandable," Connie nodded.

"You'll never guess who we ran into," Grandma told Connie. "Eddie DeChooch is back. He says he broke out of prison."

"Get out!" Connie shrieked. "Is that true?" She asked me.

"It was Eddie DeChooch in the flesh," I agreed. "Do you happen to know if there is a reward for his capture? We left him with Uncle Mickie, since DeChooch just shot up a fifty-thousand dollar limo that Mickie paid ten-thousand for."

"I don't have access to those records anymore," Connie said. "You could ask Joyce," she said, with an evil laugh.

"Oh, yeah, girl. I forgot to tell you about that, what with all the puking and shooting. Vinnie's having to chase down his own skips, and he's leaving Joyce in charge of the office. Can you believe that?" Lula doubled over laughing along with Connie.

"He's so busy writing bond and picking up his own skips, he doesn't even have time for Madame Zaretsky. She gave his regular spot to someone else. Vinnie's fit to be tied…even more than usual," Connie was gasping for air between laughing fits. "Speaking of which, how do you like the floral arrangements?"

I looked around at the seven large vases sitting under the windows and on the front counter. Two were just starting to wilt.

"Vinnie's wife, Lucille, has been sending one a day." Connie reached for a Kleenex and blew her nose. "I don't think Vinnie's ever been faithful this long."

"You should see Joyce," Lula continued. "She's only doing the phone work and skip tracing on the computer. She doesn't know how to do any of the accounting paperwork, including payroll."

"Vinnie has no idea if he's in the red or not," Grandma added.

"Wait until Joyce realizes she's not getting paid until she learns how to do payroll," Lula laughed.

"This is Joyce we're talking about," Connie said. "She's probably cleaning Vinnie out right now. She doesn't need to know how to process the payroll to do that. It just comes naturally to her."

"You should hear Vinnie. He misses the good old days when we were taking care of business," Lula said. "He should have been more appreciative of the talent."

"Well, I appreciate your talent," Melvin assured her. "I hope you never leave me like that."

"Vinnie brought it on himself, the little weasel," Connie said. "Don't worry. We'll make this studio a household name in no time."

"Gosh, I'm a lucky guy," Melvin said, beaming.

"You know it," Lula agreed.

"I hate to break up the party, but I have some birds to work on," Carl said.

"Stephanie, do you have time to take me to the beauty parlor?" Grandma asked. "I want to tell the girls about Choochie."

"Sure, why not," I told her.

Carl dropped us at my parent's house, where he had left his hearse. He kissed Grandma goodbye, and I did a full body shiver.

"I just want to run inside for a minute," Grandma said. "My teeth are slipping. I think I left my denture cream in the bathroom.

"That's fine. I think I have an old pair of sneakers and clean socks in my room."

Grandma had moved into Valerie's room, but my room was still pretty much the way I left it when I moved out. From time to time, I had to crash in my old room while my apartment was closed off as a crime scene. For the sake of convenience, I kept some clothes here, just in case.

I changed my jeans, socks, and shoes. Then I headed downstairs to toss my shoes and socks in the washing machine. As I walked, I felt something flapping against my right foot. Looking down, I realized a line of leather trim had worked loose. It was decorative, not functional, but it was going to get annoying.

"Grandma, do we have any super glue?" I called out.

"Sure, I've got some in my purse. It's Carl's. He doesn't like to put super glue in his pocket anymore."

I grimaced. I didn't want to know.

Grandma was sliding her dentures around in her mouth and smiling at herself in the mirror. I put my foot up on the counter, took the tube from Grandma, and spread some pink goo onto the shoe leather. I looked at the tube. It was a sample of Mama Mia Super Duper Dental Glue.

"Grandma, this is denture cream," I told her.

"Oops. Well, don't worry, it should hold."

I had a sudden sick feeling in my stomach.

"Grandma, what did you use on your dentures just now?"

Grandma tried to slip her dentures around again, but nothing happened. She looked surprised and tried again. Her teeth didn't appear to be moving at all.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I thought I used that new denture glue, but now I'm not so sure." She bent over and reached into the little trash can. She pulled up a rolled up tube of super glue. "Sorry, Steph. I seem to have used the last of it." She slid her tongue around experimentally. "That's a nice, tight fit, though."

"If your teeth don't come unglued by bedtime, you might need to go to minor emergency and have them take a look," I told her.

"I don't even remember what it's like to sleep with teeth in anymore," Grandma said thoughtfully. "Might be nice to try that again."

I rolled my eyes.

I carefully secured the leather trim on my shoe with the denture cream. I capped the tube and handed it back to Grandma.

"Just keep it. It might come loose again," She said.

"I can't take this. You're going to need it." I tried to hand her the tube, but she slipped it into my purse.

"No, I don't think so. I think I like the super glue better."

I didn't think continuous super glue consumption would be a good thing, but there are just some things a person has to figure out for herself. I figured I'd slip the denture cream back into her purse while she was getting her hair done.

Grandma put an arm around my shoulder and looked at us standing together in the mirror. The thin skin hanging three inches under her arm was swaying back and forth. I tried not to look at it.

"We're two hot babes," she declared.

"You know it," I said, grinning back at her.

She patted me on the back. "Let's go!"

We jumped back in Big Blue and motored over to Clara's.

It was a packed house, as always. Bertie Greenstein, Betty Kuchta, Myra Biablocki, Emma Rogers, Mavis Rheinhart, Elsie Farnsworth, Betty Szajack, Emma Getz, Harriet Schnable, Mary Jo Klick, Myra Smulinski, Rose Kotman, Esther Moyer, Mabel Burlew, Lois Grizen, and Loretta Beeber, were all clucking away in the hen house. I sat in a waiting chair flipping through magazines while Grandma recounted the afternoons' events.

"When is Carl going to have one of those Bird's Eye View gizmos ready for sale?" Elsie wanted to know. "Can it be made to shoot a water pistol? I could use it to keep the Alexander's cat off my porch. He keeps pooping in my Azaleas."

"Stephanie's got the only one in existence right now," Grandma told them. "She needs it more than the rest of us." That got a few nods.

I looked up at Grandma. "What?"

"Carl left your back-up bird in the car for you. You can keep it in the bowling bag."

"Tell Carl thank you for me." I said.

"You should tell him yourself next time you see him," Grandma told me. "He seems to think you don't take his work seriously."

"I don't know why he would think that," I said, burying my face behind the magazine in my hands.

"So, Stephanie, are you and Joe working on a case right now?" Myra asked.

"Yeah, we're looking into a few things," I said.

"Spill. We want details," Clara goaded.

"Actually, I was wondering if I could ask you ladies for a history lesson. I need to find out more about Trenton during the prohibition period."

"Is this related to a case?" Grandma asked.

"Not exactly. Joe was telling me that Chicago gangsters in the 20's built tunnels connecting large estates to waterways so they could transport and hide booze and guns and things. Do you know if that kind of thing ever happened in Trenton?"

"Oh, honey," Myra chimed in, "That was, what, 80 or 90 years ago? I know we look old, but we aren't that old."

"Maybe we weren't wearing flapper costumes, but we heard the stories from our parents, aunts, uncles, cousins," Rose told me. "We heard things. And if I know you, being Edna's granddaughter, you are trying to figure out something specific without coming right out and saying it."

"That's not right. You want information, but you won't let us in on the investigation," Harriet complained.

"Yeah, that's right. We aren't giving you any more information unless you give us the whole scoop," Rose declared.

"They've got a point," Grandma weighed in. "I want to know too."

"I don't have details," I told them. "I'm just working a hunch right now."

"Fine, what's your hunch?" Rose pressed.

I pulled up the GPS image of the estate near the tunnel on my phone and passed it around. "What can you tell me about this house?"

"Why? What are you investigating?" Rose asked.

"I know that place. That's…"

"Hush!" Rose ordered. "Stephanie's talking."

I wasn't talking. But there was suddenly silence as everyone waited for me to spill the beans.

"Um, there's no case, really. I'm just curious about the property because I saw it while I was on the river, and Joe thought it may have had a history like that. You know, mob history."

"You were just curious?" Rose asked, not believing a word of it.

"What do you mean there's no case?" Myra asked. "You just said you had a hunch. A hunch about what?"

"Just a hunch that this place had historical significance," I said, trying to backpedal.

"Well, that's disappointing," Clara said, tossing a roller into it's bin.

"If you don't want to help, we can go somewhere else," Grandma warned. The growling that ensued made me think of Bob being deprived of a chicken bone.

"You won't find the information we can give you at the library," Rose taunted.

"That's right," Grandma agreed, turning to me. "Stephanie, if you want a history lesson, don't go the library. Go to the senior center."

We turned to walk out, when Rose finally relented. "Hold it!"

"Yes?" Grandma answered slyly.

"Fine, but when you close the case, we expect a full report from you, Stephanie Morelli. We don't deserve to hear the details third party." She glared at Grandma. I suspected Grandma may have been guilty of some embellishment on past revelations.

Grandma and I sat back down.

Betty Szajack began the lesson. "Back in 1919, there was an election for Governor. The unfortunately named Edward Edwards made the popular announcement that if he were elected Governor, 'New Jersey would be as wet as the Atlantic'."

I must have looked confused, because Grandma added, " If you were pro-booze, you were wet. If you were against booze, you were dry. That was the lingo back then."

I nodded.

Mabel picked up the story. "Well, as you can imagine, Edwards won the election. But Prohibition became a national law in 1920 just the same. Nothing Edwards could do about it. At least, not legally."

Emma started giggling. "I love this part," she said to no one in particular.

Mabel continued. "Long story short, Edwards had powerful friends in politics, including the Mayor. He also had powerful friends in business. Edwards was President of the Board of the First National Bank of Jersey City. The house you're looking at belonged to the bank president, Walter Sikes."

Betty chimed in next. "Old Wally became rich during Prohibition. No one mentioned it, but everyone knew it was because he was bringing in the booze. Victor Cooper was seen at the estate all the time. He was known as the Beer Baron of Trenton. And everyone knew that the police chief, William Walter, was on the take."

Mabel took over. "The estate you see today has changed a lot over the years. It was being built at that time, and it has since changed hands, until it was confiscated by the state and turned into a law library and museum."

"So, the land is now government property?" I asked.

"That's right," Rose agreed. "After his term as Governor, Edwards ran for Senate and won. He was a Senator for seven years. I doubt he'd have been that successful except he knew how to give people what they wanted."

"So, you think he had his hand in the bootlegging that went on at that house?" I asked.

"You could never prove it," Mabel said, "But it makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

"Were there any rumors about a tunnel from the house to the river?" I asked, knowing I was pressing my luck.

"No, there weren't any stories like that. If a story like that did get around, I'll bet it was stomped out pretty quickly," Rose said.

"So, the house belonged to a bank president, not a mob gangster," I mused.

"That's not to say the mob wasn't allowed use of the tunnel, assuming there was one," Rose clarified.

"Money's money," Emma agreed. "Criminals wear a lot of labels, and in those days, most people were breaking the law."

"Back in those days," Grandma scoffed. "Seems to me, not much has changed."

There was a general round of agreement and some shallow laughter.

I decided to press my luck one more time.

"Did you ever hear about a man going missing about that time?"

All talking stopped and all eyes were on me again.

"You've found another dead body," Grandma exclaimed. "I knew it. You're working a case."

Damn.

Rose scratched her head, making one of her rollers wiggle back and forth. "I don't remember any stories about someone going missing. There were a lot of bodies recovered from concrete slabs over the years, but by now, I think most of those murders have been discovered."

Mabel shook her head too. "Can't recall anyone going missing that would have come as a surprise. You know, like Judge O'Brien. The only people that went missing back then were involved in things they shouldn't have been. We just can't figure out what happened to O'Brien."

Clara was trying to put a hair dryer down on Betty Szajack, but Betty kept pushing it back up, trying to listen. "I'll just air dry, thank you," she told Clara, who finally gave up and moved on to Emma.

"What kind of man was O'Brien," I asked, glad for a change of subject, and hoping I might be able to discover some clue on that case as well.

"You know, his wife is having an affair with the neighbor," Harriet announced.

"I don't blame her. Have you seen him? He's hot!" Grandma exclaimed.

"He was always cheating on her," Lois said, sympathetically. "She may have been cheating, but she was a monogamous cheater."

A murmur of general agreement followed.

"Was anyone holding a grudge?" I asked. "Did he put someone away that was making threats?"

"Just DeChooch," Grandma said, clapping her hand over her mouth.

My eyes grew wide. "O'Brien sentenced DeChooch?" I asked.

"Yeah," Grandma nodded.

"It was somewhat his attorney's fault," Myra interrupted. "That fool should never have been allowed to graduate from law school."

"What happened," I asked.

"Choochie was gonna take his chances, that he would be granted probation for his part in the alleged crimes," Grandma started to explain.

I could feel my eye beginning to twitch. "Those alleged crimes being interstate trafficking of stolen cigarettes, desecration of a corpse for cutting out Mickey D's heart, desecration of a corpse for shooting Loretta Ricci after she disappointed him by having a heart attack and dying during a romantic episode, shooting up a church, leaving a vehicle unattended on the train tracks, evading the police, resisting arrest, breaking an entering while he was living uninvited at Pinwheel Soba's, shooting up Pinwheel's house when Vinnie and I tried to subdue him, kidnapping you, Grandma, and let's not forget failure to appear. He's a saint. I can't imagine why he couldn't expect parole," I retorted.

Everyone was looking at me again.

"What?" I shouted.

"I had no idea you were still upset with Choochie," Grandma said, looking shocked.

What I managed not to say was that DeChooch refused to allow me to bring him in because I was a woman. It would be bad for his reputation. I had worn him down, but he would only surrender to Ranger. Ranger, being a mercenary at heart, had quoted his price for assistance as a night spent with him, in my bed. I wasn't sure he was serious until he collected on the deal. As delicious as that night was at the time, it continued to eat away at me. If DeChooch hadn't been such a in pain my butt, or if I had been capable of subduing an 80 year old man with cataracts, that little indiscretion wouldn't have happened. I hated hiding it from Joe. What if he found out someday and it ruined us? I bit my lip, trying not to let fly with the line of expletives that were exploding inside my mind like the Fourth of July.


	10. It's All About Trust

Joe's Point of View

As I pulled away from the curb, I felt both relief to be escaping the scene, and apprehension. Stephanie indicated she'd only be gone an hour, but I knew that wasn't going to be the case. One thing always leads to another with her. I just hoped I'd see her again before the weekend.

I swung by my old house since I was in the neighborhood. A large black marble stone with white letters bearing the name Morelli House stood proudly in the front yard. My cousin, Mooch Morelli, was the house parent to five boys who were high-risk, but were now enrolled in an art school and doing better.

I visited for a few minutes, looking over the latest artwork, glad once again that I turned over the keys to Aunt Rose's house. It was doing far more good for these boys than it ever did me.

Bob was in doggie-daycare, a wedding present from the couple that burdened my home with Bob in the first place. Bob is a shaggy, orange mop of hair that chews up my shoes and furniture. On the other hand, Bob is always glad to see me, and he got me through a lot of tough days when I was working homicide.

I checked Bob out and took him for a walk in the park across the street. The heat wave had finally broken with the rain yesterday. I had just cleaned up a Bob mess, when I heard a horn honking, and Frank Plum pulled to the curb in his taxicab.

Stephanie's father was a retired postal worker. He drove a cab just to make a little spending money and to get out the house. He liked to watch the game down at the lodge sometimes, too. Frank was steady and set in his ways most of the time. He didn't like having his routine interrupted. Needless to say, Stephanie's Grandmother was the number one reason his life was sometimes derailed. Stephanie's sister, Valerie, and her family, were reason number two. Stephanie and her father couldn't be more different, but they always seemed to get along just fine. Over the last few years, Frank had become the father I never had.

I waived at Frank as he got out and walked over to us.

"Frank," I said in acknowledgement.

"Hey, Joe. Where's Stephanie? I thought you two were working together now."

"We are. We signed a contract to look for a missing person this morning. She's off with Lula to question a witness. She thought she could get more without me, since most people still think I'm a cop," I explained.

Frank looked disappointed.

"I had hoped she wouldn't be going off on her own anymore."

"Me too," I admitted, letting Frank see my disappointment as well.

"Well, these things take time," Frank said, patting me on the back as we started walking.

"I'm not a cop anymore, but I'm not sure I can embrace Stephanie's way of doing things," I admitted.

"She's a little loosey-goosey when it comes to the law, just like Edna," Frank said. He always called Stephanie's Grandma by her first name.

"I've noticed," I groaned. "I'm not sure I can be. Even a former cop doesn't fare well in jail."

Frank smiled. "No, probably not."

"Stephanie gets into some serious trouble, and I thought if I were there to protect her, she wouldn't be as likely to get hurt. It sounded great in theory. But, now that I'm trying to put it into practice," I sighed. "I don't know what I'm doing, Frank. I know what I should do, legally. I can be with her, physically. But I don't know how to stop her from doing dangerous, illegal things, without preventing her from solving the case."

"Yeah, you're really juggling with chain saws now, boy." Frank laughed.

"It's not funny," I told him, seriously.

"It's kind of funny," He tried to make me smile, but I only smiled a little.

"Here's what I think. Take it or leave it," Frank offered. I nodded for him to continue. "You know the law, and that's good. You understand what is legal to disclose and what to keep to yourself. That helps protect her. You've always done that, even if you weren't thinking about it. The law has an intended purpose. It is to protect people from endangering themselves and others. Pure and simple. And for the common man, it doesn't need to be examined beyond that point. But for those rare individuals, like you and Stephanie, and even that Ranger fella…the law gets in the way. You aren't out to hurt someone. You aren't trying to hurt yourself. You're trying to figure out what happened to someone else, someone who needs help. Or, you're trying to locate and apprehend someone who is trying to hurt someone else. See, the spirit of the law is still represented in your actions, even if those actions are a violation of the letter of the law. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

"Stephanie and I are the good guys. We're chasing the bad guys. Stop sweating the details," I summarized.

"Damn. Why didn't I say that?" Frank complained.

"You did. It just doesn't feel that clear cut," I told him.

"Tell me what's going on. Maybe I can help."

"Stephanie found a dead body and four gold coins in an abandoned tunnel." I showed Frank the coins.

Frank whistled low. "That's real gold," he breathed.

"No kidding. From the 1500's." I put the coins back in my pocket. "I haven't notified authorities yet. I know Stephanie would like to keep the gold, and she wants to look for more. It's dangerous. I don't know how to ID skeletal remains without a forensics team, and I'm no longer in a position to work a homicide case like this. I feel naked without my badge." I hated that I even said that out loud.

"Of course you do. That's to be expected. Your authority belongs to someone else now. You're a citizen, just like the rest of us. But that frees you from your oath. Stephanie was never a cop, but she's always had friends like Eddie Gazarra on the force that would back her up in a pinch. Just like you always did. You know why? Because, they uphold the spirit of the law. You know this."

"I know. But I hate to call in a favor already. I don't even know what favor I would be asking."

"I suggest you pick the body clean, turn over just the remains, find out what you can from your PD friends about the identity of the victim, and then work the case yourselves. That's what Stephanie would do," Frank assured me. "I've seen her do it a hundred times."

"I know. She was always withholding evidence from me. It used to drive me crazy."

"Well, now you can do the withholding. What do the cops care, as long as the case gets solved?"

"I'm not sure Bell is going to see it that way," I argued.

"I don't think either you or Bell solved as many cases as Stephanie has."

"That's true," I conceded. "We got a lot of our information from Stephanie, it was just after the fact. I don't know what this is going to be like, being on the same page with her going forward."

"It's all about the division of labor. Take me and Helen, for instance. I bring home the money. I pay the bills. I take care of the yard and the cars. I take out the trash. Helen does the cooking and cleaning. She takes care of Edna. She buys whatever we need to live our lives. I don't mess up her kitchen. She doesn't try to change the oil in the car. We stay out of each other's way, and the thing runs like a well oiled machine, except when an Edna-shaped monkey wrench gets thrown into the works."

We walked quietly for a few minutes while I mulled that over.

"I don't care if I end up being the one that takes care of the shopping. I don't care if we eat take-out every day of the year. I can take care of the cars. As far as the business, I planned to take care of the legal documents and the financials. I expected Stephanie to bring in business. I expected her to ask me to help her find someone's dog or to take incriminating photos of a cheating spouse. I expected us to go out together, so I could have her back in case the cheating spouse was armed. I didn't expect her to be involving us in more homicides. I was hoping those days were over.

"Right now, she's with Lula down on Stark Street. Edna and Carl may be with them. And there's nothing I can do about it unless I want to pick another fight with her. And even then, she'll go without me."

Frank looked serious, but not alarmed to hear that Stephanie was in danger at that very moment.

"Trust has to be earned."

"I don't know how I'll ever get her to trust me," I admitted.

"Joe. You need to trust Stephanie," he corrected me. "She knows you don't trust her."

"It's hard to trust her, Frank." I stopped walking, looking down at my feet. "I will probably disagree with most of her decisions."

"And she knows that. Stephanie's going to do what she's going to do. Call it a compulsion, if you will. You can't stop her. If you're going to be with her, you're going to have to learn to roll with the punches. Expect the unexpected, and stop trying to fight it."

I took a deep, shuddering breath. "What if I can't do that?"

Frank laughed. "You don't have a choice. You've already proven you can't live without her."

I checked Bob back into doggie daycare, and reluctantly drove down Haywood to the Rangeman office. I hit the buzzer at the drive-up box and announced myself. The gate opened to the underground parking lot. I parked and took the elevator to the 5th floor.

Ranger and Hector helped me install the security system for the cars and houseboat over the weekend. Not wanting to owe Ranger, I declined his generous offer to provide free security, because I didn't trust him. He would have liked nothing better than to install God-knows-what when we weren't home. I didn't want to give him an opportunity to go voyeuristic on us by installing cameras in our bedroom. Or, more likely, that he would enjoy every screaming fight we would ever have.

Ranger had installed a camera in Stephanie's apartment once, to alert Rangeman in the event she had intruders. I preferred the occasional intruders to that constant intrusion.

I insisted on paying Ranger cost plus ten percent for the equipment. I did the work to install everything, which gave me both control and experience learning the systems. This is not to say that Ranger can't get in and install whatever he wants when I'm not looking. I know he can. More than once, I woke up in the middle of the night and unscrewed every electrical cover in the house looking for bugs, but I didn't find anything. I hated that he was making me that paranoid. But, I was paranoid for a reason.

I didn't think Ranger was going to try to steal Stephanie away from me. He wanted her to be happy, and causing our marriage to break up would not make her happy. Not to mention, I would have no reservations about killing him at that point.

In the past, he kept a tracker in her purse and on her car. He always knew where she was, and I know he took advantage of that. He would spend any free time he had with her, joining her on the street, wherever she was at that time.

I didn't want Ranger to have that power anymore. He promised me he would respect our marriage. He would not plant a tracking device on her, as long as Stephanie agreed. I saw hesitation in her eyes when we discussed it with her. I knew Ranger saw it too. My concern was that he did not accept her words as an agreement. Until he believe I was handling it, and until she felt secure, I knew in my gut that he would be tracking her. No time like the present to put that theory to the test.

Ranger walked out of his office, meeting me in the control room.

"Morelli."

"Ranger."

We didn't shake hands. We were still rival alpha-males, probably always would be.

I expected a snide comment, but nothing came. He was going to wait me out. I decided to cut to the chase.

"Are you still tracking Stephanie?" I asked, letting him know I assumed he was.

"You asked me not to." He didn't deny it.

"Are you still tracking Stephanie?" I asked again, my tone serious and my eyes flashing dangerously.

"Is she in danger?" He asked. Answering a question with a question. Nice.

"She's on Stark Street with Lula, Grandma Mazur, and Carl Coglin. They went to talk to Uncle Mickey about a limousine he purchased. Four retired CIA goons have already been eliminated making the same trip. So, yes, I would say she's probably in danger."

"Why aren't you with her?" He asked. He didn't seem surprised this was happening. He knew Stephanie as well as I did. Then he fired a warning shot across my bow. "Did you consider walking Bob to be a more pressing priority?"

I felt fire flickering behind my eyes.

"Are – you – still – tracking – Stephanie?" I hissed.

"Do I have a tracking device on her person? No. Do I have the ability to track Stephanie without one? Yes." He paused for a beat, letting that sink in. "She is not driving the Jeep today."

"No."

"Do you need me to locate her for you?" he asked. "Or do you need me to help you with a tracking device so you can monitor her physical location?"

"Do you have eyes on her?" I asked. Ranger always seemed to have a man on her, for her own safety. Sometimes Stephanie would lose the tail, whether on purpose or inadvertently. But, he always made the effort to keep her safe.

It rankled that she trusted him so much more than she trusted me. I knew it was my pride getting the better of me, and I was playing in the bullpen, but I didn't care. I was feeling reckless.

"Rangeman monitors the major intersections of Stark Street. We have installed software that identifies license plates so we can monitor activity. You can imagine how often we are alerted to activities on Stark that result in a profit for Rangeman. The system paid for itself within three months.

"We saw Big Blue enter the zone, and I dispatched Slick and Eddie to keep an eye on them. They called in reporting that Stephanie and company were in a black stretch limo. We captured the plate, and they lost them when Mrs. Mazur approached Route 1 at high speed, taking the exit ramp instead of the on-ramp."

I closed my eyes. I could feel the color draining from my face.

"Cal and Hal approached from the opposing lane. They advised that they were exiting. Slick and Eddie picked them up as they approached Stark. There was a near miss in an intersection, but they returned unscathed to Uncle Mickey's within 5 minutes of their departure."

I breathed a sigh of relief.

"The plate of the vehicle involved in the near miss came back stolen. We tracked the vehicle through two intersections, traveling at a high rate of speed. Slick and Eddie were notified. They reported that the occupant was Eddie DeChooch. Shots were fired."

He gave me a second. I knew it had to have ended okay, or he would have been coming unglued. He was just toying with me now.

"DeChooch shot up the limo, emptying two clips. Coglin and DeChooch exchanged words. Mrs. Mazur appeared to verbally provoke DeChooch. Stephanie was not in danger, and I had not given specific instruction regarding Mrs. Mazur's safety. While Slick and Eddie were requesting permission to fire, DeChooch was tranqued by Coglin. Stephanie tossed the gun in a barrel of oil and zip tied DeChooch. And they all left in Big Blue, leaving Uncle Mickey to clean up the mess."

"She never even knew you were there," I said, admiring his handiwork in spite of myself.

"Not today," He said. I took that as a gesture of humility, limited though it was.

"Where is she now?" I asked.

"Clara's." He took a step closer. "What do you want, Morelli? Do you want her to be safe?"

"Yes," I told him, anger still crisp in my voice.

"It takes a village."

Ranger reached into his pocket and drew out a slim piece of paper. I hesitated before reaching out and taking it from him. It was a website and access code. I assumed it was a free pass to access his tracking system.

"Anger management class," Ranger said. "I get a group rate."

And with that, he returned to his office. I had been dismissed.


	11. High Pressure Exhumation

Joe's Point of View

I was pulling out of Rangeman when my cell phone rang. It was Stephanie.

"Can you come get me, please?" She asked. She sounded desperate.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing."

"Where are you?"

"My parent's house."

"I'm about ten minutes away. How did it go? Did you find out anything from Uncle Mickey?"

"Yes. I got a good description of the two men who were with Maggie. Seems she did all the talking. Mickey gave her ten grand for the limo. But that's all I got."

"Well, that's a start. Anything else?"

"Grandma and I went to Clara's, and I found out who owned that estate by the river."

"Who?"

"Well, in the 20's it was owned by a bank president who was probably in cahoots with the Governor and the Mayor and the Police Chief. You were right, it was probably a Prohibition booze tunnel. The mob may have had access. Today the state owns it. It's a law library and museum."

"Anything else?"

"Oh, yeah. I don't know how I could forget," She said excitedly.

Finally, I thought.

"The girls at Clara's told me that Judge O'Brien sentenced DeChooch to prison, and apparently DeChooch broke out. So, that makes him the prime suspect for O'Brien's disappearance."

I didn't say anything. I was counting to ten.

"What's that noise?," She asked. "Are you grinding your teeth?"

"No," I lied between clenched teeth. "I'll see you in a few minutes," and I hung up.

I hated it, I hated it, I hated it. I really hated it. I slammed my palms against the steering wheel. Damn that smart-ass Ranger. She wasn't going to tell me about Grandma Mazur's limo ride. She wasn't going to tell me about the shoot out with DeChooch. I had no way of knowing what else she wasn't telling me.

Trust is a two-way street, baby, I thought.

I pulled to the curb, and Stephanie jumped in, tossing a bowling bag into the back seat. There were two things wrong with this picture. First, Stephanie doesn't usually wait for me at the curb. Second, the bag was way too light to be carrying a bowling ball.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"Nothing," she said, trying to give me an innocent look.

"Don't lie to me, Cupcake. It isn't nice. Why were you waiting for me at the curb?"

She blew out a sigh. "My mother."

"Your mother, what?"

"My mother, wants grandchildren." Now Stephanie was the one grinding her teeth.

I smiled. "Finally, something I can help you with," I said, joking.

She smacked me in the arm.

"That's not funny. We've only been married two weeks. She's been all over my case to get married all these years. You would think she could lay off me for a while. But no. Now it's grandchildren. Then what? What comes after that?"

"Probably another grandchild of the opposite sex from the first one," I told her.

Stephanie let out a huge sigh, slumping down in the seat.

"Relax," I told her. "We're not having kids today."

"Easy for you to say."

"You think my mother hasn't mentioned it?"

She looked at me in alarm.

"I don't let it make me crazy, Cupcake."

"Is your mother withholding cake from you?" she asked.

"Not that I'm aware of," I admitted. "Do I need to buy you some cake?"

"It might help," she teased, her defenses crumbling a little.

"Steph, do you trust me?" I asked.

She didn't answer right away. It was a loaded question.

"About what?" she asked.

"I get the feeling there's something you're not telling me."

"Like what?"

I felt the animal raging inside me. The green beast. Jealousy. She would have told Ranger. I just knew it. But Ranger wouldn't yell at her like I would. That's what he was trying to tell me. Trust has to be earned.

"Steph, did something happen today that you think would upset me? I think you're tip-toeing around something because you think I'll start yelling."

Silence. She was thinking. Probably she was thinking of a good lie.

"I don't want to fight. And nothing happened worth mentioning."

"Fine," I growled. Moving on, I asked, "What's in the bowling bag?"

"Just one of Carl's taxidermy projects."

I had seen the result of some of Carl's projects. I tilted the rearview mirror, taking a second look at the bag in the back seat.

"What is it? Is it going to explode in my car?"

"No, I don't think so," She said, as if she hadn't considered that possibility until just now.

"What is it?" I asked again.

"It's a crow surveillance camera. It can sit undetected on a roof or whatever."

"Ok," I said, unconvinced. "Does it move?"

"It can track a signal from a cell phone," she said. "Carl is getting really good with the animatronics, you know."

I recalled the walking and barking Rottweiler and Pit Bull I had seen previously. I had to admit, the quality of his work was improving, even if his taste was not.

"What did you do while we were gone?" Stephanie asked.

"I visited Mooch and the boys. Then I walked Bob in the park. Your dad saw us and stopped to talk." I paused. I wanted her to stop keeping secrets from me. But I was about to hold back my visit to Rangeman from her.

I took a deep breath.

"Then I went over to Rangeman to check on you. Because I was worried about you, and I suspected he had a man on you," I admitted.

Shock registered on her face, along with a trace of guilt.

"I know what happened today," I told her. "Ranger had eyes on both of us, and he was wondering why I was walking Bob instead of questioning Uncle Mickey with you. And I have to tell you, I am not proud of the way we conducted ourselves today, Steph."

Her mouth was hanging open.

I pulled over to the curb and put the car in park.

"I'm not mad, Cupcake. I'm frustrated." I took a long, deep breath and let it out. "We aren't being honest with each other, and this is only day two of Morelli and Morelli." I took her hand in mine. "We have a well-established pattern of withholding information from each other. As a cop, I was required to withhold confidential information from you. And because I was a cop, you had to withhold details about your activities from me." I squeezed her hand gently. "But that has to change now. My business is your business, and your business is my business. We have to build trust. We have to start somewhere, and I'd rather start being honest today than try to put the pieces together six months from now while one of us is in traction at St. Francis."

"Don't be ridiculous," she chided. "It won't take us six months to end up at St. Francis."

I smiled. "No, probably not at this rate."

"We just made up. I didn't want to get into another fight with you. I insisted on going alone, and it got screwed up, just like you knew it would. But it turned out okay, so I didn't want to go there," she admitted.

"I get that. But I don't like it. I should have gone with you. We have to stick together now. We're a team. The rest of the world is just going to have to figure it out," I told her.

She looked at me, assessing the situation before continuing.

"You're really not mad?" she asked.

"I'm only angry with myself for letting you go."

"Do you think things would have gone better if you were with us?"

"First of all, I would not have taken your Grandma and Carl. I probably wouldn't even have taken Lula. We would not have been in a high-speed chase with DeChooch, and there would not have been a shoot out."

"You don't know that," she said, scoffing.

"Not on my watch, Cupcake."

That got me a Berg glare.

"I'm sorry. I'm willing to bend the rules a little, Steph, but I'm not willing to knowingly risk your life again. I just can't live with it. We are going to have to start compromising."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been thinking. We need to ID the body you found. But first, we need to secure all of the evidence we can. If we're lucky, there will be some form of identification on the body. Maybe we can recover his wallet. I'm going to compromise with you by agreeing to withhold evidence from the investigators. We'll turn over the remains, and I'll ask to be kept in the loop, but there are no guarantees that I'll be granted access to that information."

"How are we going to get back down there?" She asked. "The water level has risen too much for us to drive in like I did last time."

"How far from the river bank was the body?"

"I don't know exactly. Somewhere around 100 feet."

"How deep would we need to dig to get down to the body?" I asked.

"A lot deeper than I want to dig. Besides, at some point, the ground would give and we'd fall into a water filled pit. I'm not up for that."

"Did you say the state owns the property?"

"Yeah, that's what I heard."

"I don't think the state is going to give us permission to dig anyway."

"Maybe we don't have to," Stephanie said. I could hear the light bulb click on.

"What's your idea?"

"It would be a shame if there was a fire," she said offhandedly.

I just looked at her. "A fire?"

"Well, just suppose someone was out boating. And suppose they got hungry and wanted to toast some marshmallows by the river. And suppose the fire department had to be called, and the high powered hoses just happened to cut through the dirt to the point that the first tunnel became exposed. And suppose someone looking down into the tunnel happened to see some bones sticking out. I think the police could be asked to assist if something like that happened, don't you?"

I took a minute to think about it.

"Kenny and Buckey," I assumed.

"Of course."

"Eddie," I assumed.

"Of course."

"Tom Bell," I concluded.

"Naturally."

"Tell Kenny and Buckey we'll need a couple of safety harnesses and possibly oxygen on stand by, just in case."

Steph just looked at me, open-mouthed again.

"You gonna make the call, or what?" I asked, giving her a reassuring smile. I wasn't kidding. We were going to do this, and we were going to do it together.

Two hours later, we were standing over a large muddy hole. I had expected high-powered hoses to be effective, but I had envisioned a long rut and lots of runoff. I had no idea a fire hose could slice straight down through hard packed dirt like a knife through butter.

Kenny and Buckey brought a ladder truck, extended the ladder, and aimed the hose straight down. They knew what they were doing, and I don't what to know where they learned it. I'm pretty sure hole drilling is not part of standard training.

They turned off the hose when we reached a layer of logs. We used hand axes to cut through the wood, a thin layer of rusted re-bar and about two inches of shot-crete, which represented the roof of the first tunnel. Unfortunately, everything fell into the hole, so I hoped we were a little off the mark, or we'd have a hard time getting the remains out.

Stephanie and I were hooked to the safety harnesses and gently lowered down into the hole. We had helmet lights, and gloves on. As I spun slowly, I could see that we were right at the convergence of the two tunnels. As we reached the bottom, we were standing in two feet of water. It was low tide again. It was going to be manageable.

Stephanie stayed put, pointing to the area where she saw the hand sticking out of the mud. I approached cautiously, feeling around in the mud with my feet, not wanting to step on the remains. When I made contact with something solid, I bent down and plunged my hand into the water. I could feel a broken leg bone, some ribs, and a skull.

"You had better turn around," I told Stephanie. "And don't throw up down here. It's going to be a crime scene."

I felt for the hand, and found the fifth gold coin in the outstretched hand, just like Stephanie described. I pocketed the coin, and continued to examine the remains. No clothing. I dug deeper into the mud, and came up with the remnants of a wallet, but it was waterlogged and not likely to reveal anything helpful. I slid it into a plastic baggie and handed it off to Steph.

"What am I doing down here if you're not going to let me help," she asked, impatiently.

"Do you want to dig around in the mud under the remains?" I asked.

I heard an involuntary retching sound.

"Do not throw up on my crime scene," I said automatically.

"I'm not," she insisted. But I knew she almost did.

"Hold on," I said, pulling up what felt like a motel room key. "Bag this," I said, handing it over to her.

I heard a splash. "Damn."

"Did you just drop that piece of evidence?" I asked, eyes closed, knowing the answer.

"It was slimy," she said, bending over to look for it.

I counted to ten, and then went back to work.

"Oh!" she cried. I turned to look at her. "There's something else in the water," she cried, nearly hysterical.

"Something alive or something dead?" I asked, thinking it could be a rat or a snake or another dead guy.

"I don't know," she said, climbing up the rope and out of the water.

"Cupcake, where are you going?"

"Do you need us to pull you up?" Buckey called down.

"Not yet," I called back. I kicked around with my foot, and came in contact with something solid but not connected to the body. I kicked it again, and then bent over to pick it up. It was what was left of a leather boot. The rubber sole was cracking apart in my hand. The leather was unusually thick. I shined the light on it to get a better look and realized there was a small leather-bound book adhering to the boot leather. This guy had a notebook stuffed inside his boot.

"You just found us another a clue, Cupcake," I told her, showing her the book.

She gingerly lowered her feet back into the water and took the book from me. "Don't try to open it. It's waterlogged. Just bag it. And find the key," I told her, feeling around for the other boot.

"You should get as much water to drain off the book as possible, and then freeze it in a non-cycling, non-frost-free commercial freezer for at least three months. That will help dry out the pages," Kenny called down.

"Three months," I heard her mutter under her breath.

"Find the key," I said, searching the other boot, but finding nothing.

After 20 minutes, I was exhausted and I hadn't found anything else, so we were pulled up and hosed off. We changed into dry clothes we brought with us before we called the coroner.

I met Tom Bell and the coroner at the nearest road so I could lead them to the crime scene. As I related our story along the way, the coroner gave me a funny look. But when we got out of the van, he saw Stephanie. She gave him a little finger wave. Bell shook his head in disbelief. The coroner just rolled his eyes and got to work, preparing to bag the body.

"What are the chances of keeping this out of the newspapers," I asked Bell.

He just laughed.


	12. Lovers, Liars,and Leopard Print

Stephanie's Point of View

I couldn't believe Joe went through with calling the coroner to investigate the remains in the tunnel. I would have called Eddie and let Eddie call it in, but Joe decided to leave Eddie out of our shenanigans. I couldn't believe he destroyed a crime scene and was withholding evidence. In a way, I felt a little guilty for turning Joe to the dark side. But, he was determined that we were going to solve this case, and that was all that mattered. It's not like we destroyed the crime scene for the fun of it.

Needless to say, Joe thought I should show him some appreciation for his cooperation. Last night was definitely one of the top ten experiences of my life. As far as Joe was concerned, the honeymoon was back on. Joe used to be on his way to work around five in the morning. It was going on ten before we finally crawled into the shower, separately this time. It was a good thing the houseboat had tank-less hot water heater.

We brunched on some cold pizza while Joe started logging all of the information we had gleaned. On the gold case, we had a worthless wallet, a book that was too wet to open, an antiquated room key for room 420 of the Stacy-Trent Hotel, and skeletal remains that we hoped would reveal the identity of the victim. We took the little notebook to Pino's after the crime scene was secured. Richie gently rinsed off as much mud and silt as possible, pressed it dry with paper towels, and then put it in a clean baggie. He was going to store the notebook in Pino's commercial freezer for the next three months, or until we could figure out a better way of drying it out. Apparently using a hair dryer isn't the best solution in cases like this. It was a good thing Joe had patience, because I probably would have tried it anyway and ruined the only clue we had so far.

With nothing to do but wait on our most interesting case, we decided to get back to work on finding Maggie Stapleton.

Joe started a new page in his logbook for Maggie. I passed on the description of Maggie that Uncle Mickey provided; hot blonde, long legs, gorgeous, did all the talking. Joe scribbled it all down. I was used to working on the fly. Joe was used to writing up reports. I decided this was going to be another one of those compromises.

Moving on, I described the goons that were with Maggie; big guys, muscle, white, thirties. One bald with a handlebar mustache. One with short dark hair and big, square, broken jaw." I noticed that the pen had stopped scribbling in the logbook. I looked up from my plate. Joe was looking rather intense.

"What?" I asked. "Do you know those guys?"

Joe was thinking. He didn't answer. He got up, walked out the front door, and closed the door behind him, standing hands on hips on the front porch. Not good.

I counted to 100. Then I called Joe's cell. He looked at it, paused a second, then connected.

"What's up?" I asked.

"I don't know."

"Who are those guys?"

"They are muscle that Vito Grizolli has on his payroll."

"Vito? You're worried about crossing Vito to get Maggie?"

"No, I'm worried the blonde that sold Mickey the car wasn't Maggie."

I stopped breathing. Joe was referring to his tall, blonde, gorgeous, ex-girlfriend, Terry Gilman. Terry's maiden name was Grizolli, as in the Grizolli crime family. Terry was to Morelli what Ranger was to me. I couldn't stand to think about that. If it were true, it meant that Joe thought time spent with me was great, but Terry was magic.

"What does that mean?" I asked Joe, glad his back was still to the window.

"It means we'll have to pay a social call to Terry Gilman."

"Maybe we can just call her," I suggested. I let that play out in my head for a second. "Hi, Terry. How's it going? Fenced any stolen limousines lately?"

Joe closed the connection and stepped back inside.

"I don't think we want to have this discussion on an unsecured line," he told me.

I had to agree. "Do you know where she is? Are we going to drop in and surprise her?"

"Yeah. She should be working in the office at Vito's main warehouse, just off Route 1." He walked towards me, slowly. "We're doing this together, like we discussed. No bailing on me now, Cupcake." He took my hand and pulled me up from my chair, wrapping me in his arms. "You don't need to be jealous. I'm all yours."

"And I'm all yours." I gave him a squeeze. "It's just hard to think about you being with someone else."

Joe had been with just about everyone else, but that didn't mean anything to him, and it was a long time ago, when he was young and wild. Terry was the only constant in his life aside from me. And I suspected they had a deeper history than I was even aware of. I suspected this because Ranger and I had a deeper history than Joe was aware of.

"Let's get this over with," I groaned, dropping my arms as he released me.

Once we exited Route 1, we drove towards a series of large warehouses inside a secured compound. Vito's stronghold was near a small airstrip, just off the highway. Train tracks also ran through the compound. I couldn't help but think that we were pretty close to the ocean, too. Vito Grizolli could ship in or out, by train, plane, boat, or truck. And these were not small warehouses. They were monstrous. You could build jumbo jets inside one of these. And there were at least twelve of them.

Joe had obviously been here a number of times. He had an access code for the security gate. I thought longingly of my silver keyfob that used to give me access to Rangeman, not to mention, Ranger's 7th floor apartment. I wondered if Joe ever had a key to Terry's apartment.

Before I could make myself crazy, we were parking by the office. Joe put his hand on my back as we entered the plush, modern office. It looked like it had been cloned from The Devil Wears Prada. And so did Terry Gilman. She was tall. She was blonde. And damn it, she was gorgeous. Her clothes and makeup were expensive. Her hair color and highlights did not come out of a box. And I was betting someone else waxed her long, shapely legs and whatever else.

Terry flashed a bright smile at Joe, having eyes only for him that first instant. Then it dawned on her that his ball and chain was with him, and she pulled back a little on the enthusiasm.

Well, well. If it isn't the newlyweds. To what do I owe the pleasure?" She asked, eyebrows raised in anticipation.

"We just wanted to talk for a few minutes," Joe said. I couldn't tear my eyes off of Terry to see what kind of expression Joe was wearing.

Believe me, I wanted to tear my eyes off her, but I couldn't. How did I win Joe over when he could have had that? What was stopping Joe from being with Terry? Oh yeah…he was a cop. She was in the Mafia. But, Joe's not a cop anymore. If Joe's not a cop anymore, the only thing stopping Joe and Terry is…me.

My life suddenly flashed before my eyes. All of it. Terry probably wanted me dead. A mob princess wanted me dead. When Joe had told me that Ranger was still tracking me, or us, whatever…I was concerned that maybe Ranger still had feelings for me. After all, you can't risk your life time after time and invest the kind of resources into someone that Ranger had and then flip it off like a light switch. Hmmm. But then again, this is Ranger we're talking about. If Ranger was anything, it was disciplined. His ability to deny himself things, like sleep or dessert or love, was legendary. If Ranger decided he wasn't going to watch me anymore, he wouldn't.

That's when I got a creeping chill. Ranger knew everything. Ranger always knew everything. Was Ranger watching us because he knew about Terry Gilman's determination to remove me from her path to happiness?

"Cupcake," Joe said, as if he had been trying to reach Mars. He pushed me forward, and we followed Terry into her office.

I sat down next to Joe on a white leather sofa. The sofa, and in fact all of the furnishings, were high quality. My first thought was that I loved this couch. My second thought was that I was going to throw up, because Joe and Terry had probably done it on this couch.

Joe was talking, and I tried to tune in.

"We have a contract to find a missing socialite. We are not authorized to share the details of her disappearance. It's restricted, per the contract. But our investigation has lead us to believe that you may have sold a similar limousine to the one she was reported to be traveling in."

"Is there a question in there somewhere," she laughed, tossing her perfect hair.

I could hear Joe smile appreciatively. "Have you seen Uncle Mickey lately?" he asked.

"Well, you really do like to get down to it, don't you?" Terry asked. "Guess some things never change." Clearly that was for my benefit.

"Terry, two members of your security team were identified, and you match the description of the woman who sold Mickey a black, stretch limo the other day."

"I promise, you won't find any hard evidence to support that claim."

"You know I'm not here as a cop."

"Because you're not a cop," she said. Boom. There it was. Her mask slipped just a little, and we all knew it. All these years, Terry couldn't get Joe to give up being a cop. Clearly, she had tried. I hadn't even asked him to.

We all sat in stunned silence for a beat.

"We just need to find the girl," I said. I couldn't believe my voice was working. But I couldn't sit still in that awkward moment any longer. "Where did you see her last?"

Terry's eyes were glued to Joe's, but she answered me, in an off-handed sort of way. "Why should I help you?" She was clearly bitter. She wasn't even hiding it now.

Joe was holding my hand, but he leaned forward, addressing Terry in one of his scariest tones. "Because, you know it's the right thing to do." How to make an innocent phrase like that sound dark and menacing was a trick neither Ranger nor Joe had ever been able to teach me. I guess they were just born with it. Regardless, it always seems to work.

Terry glared at Joe, then said matter-of-factly, as if she were bored, "Word has it, she had three suitcases in tow, and she was walking down Sloan, near the bus terminal. She was out of gas, and she left the keys in the car. One of our men relocated the vehicle for her."

"Relocated it to Uncle Mickey's?" I asked.

"You now have all the assistance I can give you." Terry rose and opened the door to her office.

We got up to leave without another word.

Joe didn't waste any time leaving the compound. He even ran a stop sign on the way to the on-ramp to Route 1. We sat in silence, both of us afraid to say anything that would start a fight.

"I think we should go down to the bus terminal and show her picture to some people. Maybe someone saw something," I suggested, once we were back in Trenton proper.

"OK," he agreed. He headed the car in that direction.

I noticed that Joe kept checking the mirrors. I looked in the side mirror, but didn't see anything suspicious.

"Is she going to kill me?" I asked, out of nowhere.

"Do you think it would get her anywhere?" he asked, not surprised by my question.

I just stared at him.

"I would know if Terry caused something to happen to you. And do you think I would want to be with Terry if she tore you out of my life?" He glanced over at me. He had his cop face on, and I couldn't read him very well. "Terry knows that killing you won't get me back in her bed."

"Maybe she's angry enough that she doesn't care," I thought out loud.

"No one's going to take you from me now, Cupcake. I've worked too hard to get this far." It sounded like a promise I could believe in. "Besides, it'll be a cold day in hell when I turn enforcer for Vito Grizolli."

That made me smile. "You'd have to wear a suit," I said, starting to laugh. Everyone knew that Joe had to dress in plain clothes and not a suit when he was a detective. The chief said he looked like a casino pit boss when he wore a suit. Apparently, that's a fashion statement that fails to put the victims' families at ease.

"Well, if you're not worried about Terry, why do you keep checking the mirrors?" I asked.

"Rangeman," he said. "But I think we lost them."

"Do you know why Ranger is having us followed?" I asked.

"If he has a specific reason, he hasn't shared it with me." Joe glanced over at me. "Do you think Ranger wants to kill me?"

I smiled, but didn't laugh. "No, I don't think so."

"You wouldn't go back to him if he did, would you?" Joe asked, not assuming he knew my answer.

A got a creeping chill. Joe knew. I knew he knew. He knew I had slept with Ranger.

He must have read it on my face. "Yeah, I know," he said, confirming it.

Joe parked on the street a block from the transit station and turned off the engine.

"We need to clear the air, before we go any further," Joe said. He had that tone that was usually followed by pain, namely mine.

"About what?" I asked with growing alarm.

"When we were broken up...several times...I did sleep with Terry. I know you suspected. But, I didn't sleep with her when we were together. I hope you know that. At least, you should know," he said, referring to the wedding present we received from Ranger. It was a DVD. The Burg grapevine made sure I found out that Joe was seen fleeing half naked from a motel room he appeared to be sharing with Terry. The video showed Terry in a see-through nightie, trying to seduce Joe, literally ripping his clothes off. I always assumed he had been cheating on me with Terry, but Ranger provided footage from the motel security camera proving that Joe had been fleeing from an angry Terry because he had told her no. He could he heard telling her that he loved me. I assumed Ranger obtained a copy of the tape because he heard the rumors too, and wanted to find out if it was true. When he realized the rumors were unfounded, he continued to respect my commitment, however wavering, to Joe.

Joe didn't look at me. He stared at the steering wheel and the clock on the dash, waiting for me to explode.

"Oh," I said. "Well, I'm glad that's behind us."

He gave a short chuckle of disbelief. "That's it?"

"Yeah," I said, surprising myself.

"You were never with Ranger when we were together, were you?" he asked. "The truth, Steph."

"I was only with Ranger one night. We were definitely not together at the time. In the morning, Ranger and I both agreed that I needed to repair my relationship with you."

Joe looked genuinely surprised. "It was that bad?" he asked.

I rolled my eyes. "No. Ranger's lifestyle just doesn't lend itself to relationships."

"What if that had changed?" he asked.

"I don't think he can change, Joe." I smiled. "Besides, I've always been in love with you. How could Ranger ever compete with that?"

"Trust me, Cupcake. Ranger likes a challenge." Joe groaned as he climbed out of the car. He was obviously sore. "Damn safety harness," he growled under his breath.

We walked up and down the street, showing Maggie's picture to people who were working in the vicinity. Terry said she had three suit cases. I tried to imagine that. High-end luggage would have wheels, so she probably had the bags stacked in some way or was carrying one and rolling two on wheels. I tried to imagine that I was walking with three large suitcases. Where would I be going? Where would I stop to rest? Do I have any money? Do I know where I'm going?

"Terry said the limo was out of gas," I said to Joe, thinking out loud. "I am assuming she did not use her credit card, because they would have been able to track that."

"If she did have any cash on her, chances are good she didn't have it any more after walking down Sloan."

This was true. A socialite walking alone in this neighborhood toting three suitcases may as well have the words "easy mark" tattooed on her forehead.

"OK, say she did get her purse lightened. She's running away. She needs cash." What do I do when I need cash? "Does she know what a pawn broker is?"

"Probably not," Joe said.

We walked a few more blocks, asking cafe waitresses and bag ladies if they had seen Maggie. Then I noticed a ho with Lula's fashion sense leaning against a brick wall. She was wearing leopard print pumps, but these weren't Via Spigas or any kind of knock offs. These were genuine Christian Louboutin Maryl Leopard-Print Calf Hair Peep-Toe Red Sole pumps. I'd seen them advertised at Neiman Marcus for close to a grand.

"Excuse me," I said to the woman. "Can you tell me if you've seen this girl?"

She looked at the photo. "Nah, I ain't seen her." She waived her long, manicured nails at me dismissively.

"I love your shoes. They're Louboutin, aren't they?" I actually did love those shoes.

"Hell, I don't know what they are. They're comfortable though."

"Were did you get them?"

"Down the way, there at the consignment shop."

I looked down the street. In the middle of the next block I saw a sign that read "We Buy Used Clothes".

"Joe" I called, waiving him over to me. "If she's really planning to lie low in Trenton, and if she's smart, she's going to have to change out of that runway fashion she's used to wearing. She needs to blend in and stop looking like a pigeon ripe for the plucking."

I explained my discovery as we made a bee-line for "Faux Paw Fashions". The store was heavy on animal print and leather. I went to the 80's Cindy Lauper look-alike behind the counter and showed her Maggie's photo.

"Have you seen this woman?" I asked, nearly out of breath from walking so fast.

She took a good, long look. "Oh, yeah. The rich chick. She was here. Still got a few things. Were you looking for something special?"

"Yes, I'm looking for the girl. Her parents think she's pretty special."

"Oh, she's special, all right," she said, cackling. "That girl's got no sense of reality."

"What do you mean?"

"She came in here expecting to sell some clothes at their actual retail value. Do I look like I get the kind of clientele that's going to pay twenty-five hundred for a used purse?"

"I saw the Louboutin pumps down the street. What did you pay Maggie for those?" I asked.

"The usual." She pointed to the wall behind her. On the wall was painted a large list of clothing and accessories and their price range. Shoes were listed as ten dollars to forty dollars.

"You paid her forty dollars for a thousand dollar pair of shoes?" I asked.

"Nah," she cackled. "I paid her one hundred dollars for five pairs of shoes. I told her she had to bring in receipts to prove what she paid for them, otherwise, the best I could do was twenty bucks."

"Oh by God," I gasped. "What did you sell them for?"

"Forty bucks. I made one hundred percent profit. I'm not greedy. I'm performing a public service, here."

And this gal thought Maggie was stupid. She could have sold the whole lot on E-bay and closed up early.

"Do you have a way to get in touch with her?"

"No. She came back once or twice to sell things, but I haven't seen her in a few days."

"Did you see which way she was going when she left? Was she on foot, or driving?"

"She was on foot. Didn't see which way she went." She looked thoughtful for a second. "The first time she was in here, she left with some pothead. I figured she was trying to get high or something. He was telling her that he knew a place she could crash."

"Can you describe the guy for me?"

"He had long hair. Tall and skinny. And he talked funny. Like he was a cross between an hippie throw-back and a California surfer."

"Did you catch his name at all? Has he been in the store before?"

"Yeah, he's been in with Dougie Cooper."

"Dougie Kruper?"

"Yeah, that's the guy. Every time a truck gets jacked in Jersey, here comes Dougie wanting to sell me something. I only buy and sell clothes. I don't buy and sell toasters or stool softener. One time the pothead came in with Dougie trying to sell me several boxes of long underwear. And I might have bought some, but they were all made up like Underoos. Discerning teens do not want to purchase homemade Underoos."

"Thank you!" I yelled over my shoulder as I ran out the door.

Joe was across the street, talking to Officer Carl Costanza and his partner, Big Dog. They were beat cops and friends of ours.

"She left the consignment store with Dougie Kruper!" I shouted as I ran towards them. That got me three blank stares.

"Looks like the ME got nowhere with identifying the victim. The remains were scanned and digitized, and they have been sent to the university so some forensics students can have a crack at it. After that, they are going to be interred."

"How can they bury the remains if they don't know whose remains they are?"

"The bones will be placed in a county plot as a John Doe," Carl said. "Budgets have been cut. Space is a commodity now. Only pressing cases have priority, and this case isn't a priority. Not to mention, the bones are in such poor shape, the ME refused to make a determination that foul play was involved. So, it is being classified as an accidental death, probably drowning, and there is no murder case. Case closed."

I was dumbfounded.

"We have to find out who that man is," I told Joe.

"Breathe easy, Cupcake. We're going to see to it that John Doe makes one more trip to the Berg before he goes back in the ground."


	13. Double Booked

I went to school with Mooner and Dougie. Now in their 30's, they are the quintessential Laverne and Shirley, sharing an apartment together in the Burg. Or maybe Lenny and Squiggy would be a more accurate description. While they are technically members of the criminal element, they're actually sweet guys, and completely harmless. Still, as much as I like them, it's fair to say they are each a bubble off center. Sometimes I had to assume mine was too, given the number of times I crossed paths with them over the years.

We pulled to the curb in front of the apartment. Joe followed me to the door. I knocked, but no answer. I rang the bell. No answer. I could hear the TV blaring inside, so I tried the door. Locked.

"You wanna pick the lock for me?" I asked Joe.

He looked at me for a beat. "Can't we just come back later?"

"No."

I stepped back to give Joe access to the door.

"Do I look like I have lock picking tools on me, Cupcake?"

I sighed. "I think you might want to from now on. Between the two of us, you're the only one that can pick a lock."

"I know, I know," he mumbled. "Division of labor."

"You've been talking to my dad again, haven't you? Has he been giving you marital advice?"

"Something like that."

"What else is on your side of the division of labor."

"Paperwork, financials, and security."

"OK, what's on my side?"

"Determination, communications, and sheer dumb luck," he said.

"Well, right now I think we'd have more luck with the door open," I told him.

"Fine." He walked back to the car, dug around in the trunk, and came back with a lock picking set.

A moment later, the door swung open, and we both froze. Mooner and Dougie were each cuffed to a kitchen chair. They looked like they had been crying. Sitting across the table from them were Tank and Ranger.

"What the hell are you doing?" I yelled, barging into the apartment. Joe ambled in, closing the door behind him.

"You're right, I have been missing out on all the fun," Joe laughed.

I stood, hands on hips, waiting for an explanation.

"Babe." Ranger didn't look the least bit embarrassed or ashamed of himself.

"Uncuff them," I demanded.

"Interrogation works better with a captive audience," Ranger said, standing and offering me his seat.

"If you want information from Mooner and Dougie, this is not the way to go about it," I told him. "What is this all about."

"I can't tell you that, Babe," Ranger said.

"Why not?"

"Babe." he groaned. I was being a pain in his ass. "What are you doing here?"

"I need to ask Dougie a few questions."

That got me a raised eyebrow. "What kind of questions?"

"I can't tell you," I said in a mocking tone. "It's classified."

This got me a laugh. "Confidential is not the same thing as classified, Babe."

"Let me guess," Joe said. "Rangeman has been contracted by the Stapleton's."

"Bingo," Ranger responded. "I hate abduction cases, and I hate searching for runaways even more."

"Then why'd you take the case?" I asked.

"Juniak." Joe Juniak had risen up the political ranks, moving from Trenton all the way to the Governor's Mansion, and his aspirations seemed to have no limit. The link between Juniak and the Stapletons was obvious. Of course they had called in a favor from the Governor. The link between Ranger and Juniak remained mysterious. But it seemed that the answer to Ranger's endless source of shiny new vehicles was somehow related.

"Called in a favor, did he?" Joe asked.

"Yes."

"Feeling a little tug on your leash there, Ranger?" Joe asked. I shot him a warning look. It's never a good idea to bait Ranger.

"Well, I'm sorry if you're not happy about taking this case, but that's no excuse for roughing up my friends," I told Ranger, the sound of my voice growing louder as I was competing with the television. "Turn that off already," I yelled to Joe. He grabbed the remote off the couch and shut it off.

"I told this dude, we don't know anything about the chick you're looking for," Dougie whined.

"Did Tank or Ranger hurt you?" I asked him.

"Not yet, but they were gonna."

"Thank God you got here in time!" Mooner wailed, starting to cry again.

"I just looked at them, and they started crying," Tank assured me.

"You didn't accidentally bump their knee caps with your maglite?" I asked Tank.

"No, ma'am. Not even a little."

I believed him. Here's the irony. Ranger and I had rescued Dougie and Mooner from near death once. You wouldn't think the sight of Ranger would cause this much trauma. On the other hand, that may be why Ranger brought Tank. Tank was an unknown quantity in their books.

"Uncuff them," I demanded again. "Right now."

Tank looked to Ranger. Ranger nodded, and Tank handed me the keys. I unlocked the cuffs, handing them back to Tank.

"Sit," Ranger barked when Mooner tried to stand. He immediately went limp and slid back into the chair.

"Let me get this straight. We are both trying to bring in Maggie Stapleton for the reward money. Is that right?"

"Yes." Ranger gave a slight nod.

"Normally, you'd walk away and let me have it, but this time, you have to come through for Joe Juniak."

"Yes."

"How much did you negotiate the contract for?" Joe asked Ranger.

Ranger just smiled. "More than yours."

"Negotiate?" I turned to Joe. "We didn't get to negotiate."

"Sure we did. I sent our standard contract by e-mail the night before we visited. The attorneys rejected 80% of our contract, re-wrote the entire thing, and that's what we signed while were there. The negotiation was over."

"That doesn't sound like very good negotiating, Joe," I complained.

"Cupcake. This is our first case. It's not like we have a lot of references to provide or powerful friends to persuade them. We wouldn't have had a contract at all if it hadn't been for your little outburst."

Ranger looked at me for an explanation.

"They were ignorant about the perils of making inquiries on Stark Street," I said with a shrug.

"I don't think she's staying on Stark," Ranger told us.

"Me either," I agreed.

"I think Dougie knows where she's staying, and I think he better tell us." Ranger's voice dripped with menace. I was pretty sure Dougie wet himself.

"Wait just a cotton picking minute," I interrupted. "How did you come to that conclusion?"

"We ran the plate on the limo when we picked it up on our surveillance cameras down on Stark."

"When?" I asked.

"Yesterday," he said. It had been my joy ride with Grandma that had lead Rangeman to the scent.

"OK, limo plates. The plates lead you to the Stapletons?"

"No. First Juniak Called. Then the Stapleton's attorney."

"Justin Sedgwick Thiebold, Esquire," I assumed.

"That's him. We negotiated a price. They refused my contract too. My attorney had to review his attorney's contract. There were six revisions, including compensation for my attorney's hours. It took days. We received the brief only after we completed the deal. We didn't make it to Uncle Mickey's before you were test driving the limo. The plate on the limo is registered to a 1963 Gremlin under the name Steven Sparks. Sparky recently made some bad investment decisions. He was probably sitting in the Gremlin when it was transformed into a paperweight down at the impound yard. The plate lead us to Grizolli muscle, and that lead us to the bus terminal on Sloan."

"The guy with the handle bar mustache or the guy with the broken jaw?" I asked.

Ranger smiled. "Proud of you, Babe. Handlebars talked first. I'm guessing the broken jaw guy has a high tolerance for pain."

I grimaced.

"We tapped in to local surveillance cameras and picked Maggie out of the lineup with no problem. She sold some clothes, bought some street clothes, got her hair cut and received a makeup lesson at a salon nearby. She was back a day later buying drugs from a guy that's known to make papers."

"Wait, what?"

Joe explained. "If she's found out who to go to for a fake ID, they probably made her purchase some illegal substances to prove she's not a cop."

"She's not street smart. Someone's helping her," Ranger said. "She's been caught on camera three times with Dougie, here. And he's going to tell us what he knows."

"Dougie?" I turned to him. "I know you left Faux Paw Fashions with Maggie the day she arrived. Did you help her find a place to stay?"

"Steph, you don't understand. She can't go back."

"Dougie. You don't understand," Joe told him. "She has to go back. She doesn't even begin to possess the skills needed to survive in the ordinary world."

"She can learn," Mooner said. "It's a free country. She's of legal age. She's free, man."

"Dougie," Joe tried again. "Margaret's family isn't just well off. They are insanely rich. They don't just get on a plane and go to Europe. They buy a plane and the pilot, and the landing strip, and when they land in Europe, they buy large chunks of that too. A family with this kind of money and power requires tight security. Margaret is in danger right now, not just from muggers and con artists, but from international terrorists and political opponents, or other opportunistic kidnappers who might try to hold her for ransom. Margaret will never be safe outside the rigid structure of life she has become accustomed to."

"That's why she's in disguise," Mooner said, tapping his index finger to his temple. "Smart."

Everyone except Mooner did a mental eye roll.

"So," I said, turning back to Ranger. "Who do you have locked up in your safehouse?" It was just a shot in the dark, but no one had mentioned the limo driver. The last person to see Maggie may have been a valuable witness.

Ranger considered keeping his secret, but I gave him my best Berg glare. "Maggie's PA," he said.

I must have looked confused.

"Personal Assistant," Dougie said, realizing too late that he should have kept his mouth shut.

"Maggie doesn't dress herself. She certainly doesn't pack for herself. I brought the PA in for questioning, to help us identify the items she may have been selling at the consignment shop. We were trying to gauge how prepared she might have been. According to the PA, Maggie didn't even know her grandmother was dying. She was not planning this escape. But we may know why she did it."

"Why?" I asked, Dougie. This was how I got my information. "Dougie, you said she can't go back. Why can't she?"

"Dude, they're gonna force her to marry some asshole."

Ranger nodded agreement.

"She's running away from an arranged marriage?" I asked them both.

They both nodded.

"To who? Who's the asshole?"

"I don't know. Some guy who's abusive to his staff."

I stifled a giggle.

"Charles Baxter III. His father owns Baxter Communications. He is notorious for losing his temper and screaming obscenities at the help. He's been caught on camera a few times, that kind of money can even make things on YouTube disappear."

"So, she doesn't love this guy."

"Not even a little," Ranger said.

"And we're supposed to bring her back for money? Is anyone else having a problem with this?"

"Babe, If we don't bring her back, something worse is going to happen to her."

"You don't know that," Dougie interjected. "Give the girl a chance."

"It's not all about the money," Ranger assured me. "But they money's good."

"The money's dirty," Mooner mumbled.

"You're right," I said, agreeing with Mooner. "They money's dirty, and I don't want it. Rangeman can have the case." I turned on my heel to leave. When I reached the door, I called back to Dougie and Mooner, "Don't worry. No one from Rangeman will hurt you, or they'll have to answer to me."

"You married a hellcat," Ranger told Joe as he followed me out.

"Don't I know it," he said, closing the door behind us. "Well, you got us the gig, and now you've lost us the gig," he complained.

"I don't care," I said, stubbornly. "There's more than one way to skin a cat."


	14. The Stacy-Trent Hotel

[Author's Note: In this chapter, I am invoking even more creative license. We are going to step back in time to visit The Stacy-Trent Hotel. I realize it was demolished in 1967, but it lives on in the imagination, and in photographs. I hope you'll enjoy this picture postcard moment.]

"What now?" Joe asked as we slid into his car.

I pulled the only viable lead to a payday from my pocket. Joe glanced over at the hotel key I was dangling in front of him.

"I'm pretty sure housekeeping has been up to the room by now, Cupcake," Joe scoffed, turning the engine over.

"Do you have a better idea?" I had a smart-alack look on my face, and I was pretty hot from my exchange with Ranger. And it was not the kind of hot that Ranger usually left me with.

"Maybe we can actually try looking for O'Brien," he suggested.

"You want to e-mail his wife a contract? Or should we just sign hers?"

"Don't start with me, Cupcake," Joe warned.

"You didn't even haggle."

"Do I look like I went to Harvard Law?" He dropped the shifter into drive and we took off.

"Where are we going?" I asked after it was obvious we weren't headed for the Burg.

"We're going to the Stacy-Trent. I just know you'll go without me. You have that look."

"What look?"

"That...determined look."

"Well, you said determination was on my side of the Division of Labor. What did you expect?"

"Probably more than I deserve," Joe growled.

We stopped talking in order to avoid another possible fight.

Soon, we were cruising down State Street. The Stacy-Trent was looming ahead. It was one of the largest buildings in the Trenton skyline. The first eight floors were red brick, and the top two floors were white, renaissance revival style. The hotel was overlooking the Hudson, and across the Hudson, visitors could see Pennsylvania Avenue. I had never been inside, and I was, as always, curious.

We parked down the street and walked up to the front of the hotel. There was a Bentley parked outside. A doorman stood under the awning. I suddenly felt disasterously underdressed.

"Maybe we should run home and change," I suggested.

"Into what?"

"Something less...casual."

Joe was not in the mood to play dress-up. "See, this is what I'm talking about. Left to your own devices, you and Lula would come down here dressed as high-class call girls, trying to get access to room 420. Not on my watch, Cupcake. Move," he ordered, pressing his hand into my back and urging me through the door as the doorman opened it for us.

The lobby was enormous and very elegant. Lush potted palms were fanning their leaves like a tropical umbrella over dark wood furnishings. The lamps were blown glass, the shades were wide and round, like a sun hat. The edges were ringed with long fringe that would sway in the slightest breeze, adding to the exotic ambiance. I just knew there had been large, slow moving ceiling fans in this room at one time. The couches and chairs were covered in deep colored tapestry. The rugs were probably from Sotheby's, I thought, wistfully. The room was trimmed with Corinthian columns topped with white capitals. There was a white balcony overlooking the lobby from a lofty height. It's narrow spindles exaggerated the soaring height of the room. If this Hotel were located in Madagascar or Casablanca, it would be exquisite. The fact that I knew we were still in Trenton just made it weird.

We crossed the lobby, and pressed the button for the elevator. Joe was right. Despite the Hotel's attempts to preserve the original lobby due to the landmark status of the building, the rest of the hotel had been modernized. It was a lot like being at the Holiday Inn. That was a real disappointment.

We got off on the 4th floor, and walked down the hall, past the security camera, to room 420. I held out the key in my hand, and then looked at the steel door with the electronic card lock.

"Joe, it's your turn to pick the lock again."

He just laughed. "Are we done here?"

"No."

"What do you suggest, Cupcake?"

I tried knocking on the door.

"Seriously?"

I knocked again. Nothing.

"I need to think," I told him.

"Well, I need a drink. I suggest we do both." Joe lead the way back to the elevator. He asked the man at the first floor customer service desk where he could get a beer. We were directed to The Nymph Room.

The Nymph Room was similar in style to the lobby. It was like stepping out of time. Again, Corinthian columns and high ceilings. Chandeliers hung low from the ceiling, each light dimmed under a small white shade. About twenty round, dark wood tables were covered by rich white tablecloths, showing off the workmanship of their antique chairs. The room was accented with robins-egg blue and gold. We sat at the bar, which was also shaded under the spread of palm leaves.

Joe ordered two beers and then placed a call to Tom Bell to ask if there had been any progress in identifying our John Doe. I expected the bartender to pop the top off a bottle for me, but I got a beer stein instead. I expected Budweiser. What I got was some kind of rich German lager. And I've got to tell you, it was good. I was hoping Joe had enough pocket change to cover it. It didn't taste cheap.

Joe wasn't talking, he was listening, so I looked around. Framed on the back of the bar were memorabilia from the Stacy-Trent during her hey-day. The 1936 wine list for The Nymph Room proved that the hotel had never sold Budweiser. A Whisky Sour was thirty-five cents.

There was a program from the hotel's formal opening on September 21st, 1921. Photos showed hundreds of well dress guests standing in the rooftop garden. In the background the photographer captured Stacy Park and a spectacular view of the river. They really did things big back then. There was a real sense of style. Not just the good-enough-to-get-by that we settle for now.

"Why do they call this The Nymph Room?" I asked the bartender.

He pushed aside a low hanging palm frond to reveal a classical, dark painting of a naked man with the legs of a goat surrounded by four naked women who appear to be trying to coax him into a pond, presumably luring him to his death. A small gold plaque that read "Nymphs and Satyr by Adolphe William Bouguereau" had been nailed to the ornately carved frame. The picture was a slightly discolored copy, but the antique frame was ornately hand carved. The information card for the item read:

Placed in the tap room in 1934, the painting remained in the room as a source of conversation and speculation. It was removed from the room in 1948 as part of a remodel. Patrons complained, and the painting was eventually returned to it's resting place, where it continues to be a source of conversation and speculation.

On the other side of the bar was an announcement that the Trenton Historical Society dinner would be held at the Stacy-Trent on December 29, 1926 to celebrate the Sesquicentennial of the Two Battles of Trenton. There was accompanying art work depicting the Battle of Trenton.

"That's 150 years," Joe said, apparently not able to endure watching me try to figure out "sesquicentennial" in my head.

"I knew that," I said, giving him an eye roll.

"Sure you did."

"What did Bell say? Did the students ID our guy?"

"Not really. They did come up with a few details, but nothing that would ID him."

"Like what?," I asked.

"Caucasian male, about five foot nine and 120 pounds, approximately 45 years old, physical markers in his back and hands show that he was studious, you know, sitting and writing rather than manual labor. He was slight in build, skinny, not muscular. Left handed. But that's about it."

I was done with my lager. Joe paid, and we stood.

"OK, I've had my drink, and you've had your think. Can we go now?"

I turned back to the bartender. "Are there still gardens on the roof?" I asked.

"No. Budget cuts."

"Ok, thanks," I said, turning to go.

"What were you going to do, try to swing over the side on a rope and climb in the window? It's a ten-story building," Joe groused.

"This is why I don't want to take you with me. You complain. You're cynical. You don't contribute to the solution. Next time, I will leave you home, and Lula and I will actually work the case," I fumed.

Joe reached out and snagged the key from my hand.

"Let me show you how it's done, Cupcake," he said in his condescending tone.

For a moment, I had a flash back to the last time Joe talked to me with this taunting lilt in his voice. It was like we were right back to where we started, when Joe was a fugitive from the law, accused of shooting an unarmed man, and I was the inept bounty hunter he was dancing rings around. Well, he'd better keep in mind that it was this inept bounty hunter that drove him straight to the Trenton PD loading dock in a freezer truck full of dead meat. And I proved his innocence. He owed me a little civility and a lot of gratitude. All I was getting, though, was attitude.

I hung back for a minute before following Joe at a march. He was leaning over the check-in counter, flashing his baby blues at the girl working the reservation computer.

"Hi," he said. I thought I would throw up, it was so fake and gaggy.

"Hi," she smiled, playing coy.

"I was wondering if you could help me." I caught on that he was going to try to get her to take him up to the room. Seriously, this is all he's got, after criticizing me and Lula for dressing up like hookers? Pretending to be a red hot gigolo is okay?

I couldn't watch. I gave Joe a death glare, and walked over to the elevator. I got in and hit four. I figured I may as well be up there waiting if I wasn't going to watch that pathetic display.

When the door opened, I rushed out, bumping into the cleaning lady and knocking over her cart. Toilet paper rolls and little mints were flung across the floor.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" I said, trying to pick myself up. I was laying on top of her overturned cart.

"Excuse, excuse," she said, obviously a foreigner. She helped me up and together we picked up the mess. On the floor by the elevator door was a white, plastic card with Stacy-Trent printed on it. I picked it up along with two rolls of toilet paper and a bottle of window cleaner. The maid's back was to me when I realized I was holding her key card. I couldn't help noticing that she only had one key card, not a separate key card for each room. I pocketed the card, and walked back towards the elevator door.

"Ma'am," I said, trying to get her attention.

She came over to the elevator door. "I think your key card just fell into the elevator shaft."

She looked confused.

"Key card," I said. Nothing. I went to a nearby door and made a enough gestures that she understood. Then I pointed to the narrow slit in the floor between the floor and the elevator door. "It fell down there."

She clapped her hands to her face. Now she got it. She hurried down in the elevator, probably to find the maintenance man. I hated to do it, and I would make sure she got her card back. But for now, it would keep her out of my hair long enough to have a look around room 420.

I used the key card and entered the room. Then I called Joe.

"Would you care to join me upstairs?" I asked, feeling pretty smug.

"I'll be right up," he said. It sounded like he had been shot down by the receptionist.

I looked around the modern hotel room, seeing nothing that would have been original at the time the door locks would have taken a key. There was a soft rap on the door. I let Joe in and continued looking around. The bathroom tile had all been replaced. The walls were sheet rock. The carpet was obviously not original. The light fixtures, the electronics, everything was altering my attempt to look back into the past and pull out a clue.

I closed my eyes, just feeling the size and shape of the room. If I were a man with access to those gold coins, I would want someplace safe to hide them. I wouldn't use the hotel safe. I wouldn't hide them under the rug, and the plaster walls would be too difficult to cut into to hide something. If anything had been hidden in the bathroom, it would have been found by now. But a man like that had to have a place to hide those coins while he slept, worked, ate, didn't he? Did he carry them around with him everywhere he went? If he were a book smart man, a skinny man who couldn't defend himself, I didn't think it was likely. I reached out my left hand and looked around. Where would a left-handed man think to hide a treasure?

"I told you, there's nothing here," Joe said, growing impatient again.

"I can see that." I paced while Joe laid down on the bed. He didn't look so good.

"Do you always lay down on the job?" I asked.

"I'm not sure what was in that beer, but I don't think it likes me."

Suddenly, we heard voices in the hall. The maid was back with maintenance.

"Great!" I whispered.

"Not great!" Joe whispered back.

"What is your problem?" I hissed.

"Gas. Very bad gas." And then he farted. It was silent, but deadly.

"Oh my God!" I hissed. "Just use the bathroom."

"I don't think you want me making that much noise right now," he whispered, pointing to the hallway.

We could hear every word being spoken, even if we couldn't understand them.

Joe groaned, and I held my breath for as long as I could. When I tried to breathe into the elbow of my shirt, it was still more than I could take. I was on the verge of running out of the room and taking my chances on the stairs.

"Open the window," Joe told me. He was still rolling around on the bed, trying not to explode.

The windows were new, and opened easily, although not far. I guess they didn't want anyone taking a swan dive out the window.

I still wasn't getting enough air. I squatted down and tried to suck air through the opening. I was turning my head to try to stick it out the window when I noticed an odd discoloration around one of the bricks framing the right side of the window. It looked dirtier than the other bricks, with a dark, vertical line along the edge. I reached out and tapped the brick. I could only reach it with my left hand. My heart started racing. He didn't keep the treasure in his room. The entire room could have been ransacked, and the treasure would still be safe. No one looks on the outside of a building with no balcony.

I looked again. No, it was a real brick, just like all the other bricks. I tried to jiggle it, testing to see if it was loose. Nothing happened.

"What are you doing?" Joe murmured.

"I'm doing what I always do, Joe."

I dug around in my purse for my metal nail file. I don't like to use it on my nails, but it's sometimes handy for cutting myself loose from electrical tape or trying to jimmy handcuffs loose.

I ran the tip of the nail file along the edge of the brick, and then pulled it back inside to examine it. The black was just dirt. But why did one brick have a line of dirt? What had etched it? I tried again. More dirt, but it almost felt like I was scratching a little deeper into the brick.

I dug around in my purse for my dental floss. I pulled a long strand out and wound it around my fingers nice and tight.

"Cupcake, do you have any Pepto in there?" Joe asked.

"Shut up!" I mouthed.

It was awkward for me to lean in this position, and I felt like an idiot. I couldn't get both hands out the window at the same time, and it was open as wide as I could get it. I wrapped the floss around the brick where the seam appeared to be growing, and worked it back and forth, trying to saw the end of the brick from the top down to the bottom. I thought I was getting somewhere before, but the dental floss wasn't doing much. I looked at the brick again. There was a little round hole, right in the center of the end of the brick.

Think, think, think. What could I use to poke around in there?

I went over to the bed and started patting Joe down, looking for the lock picking set. He looked like he thought he was going to get some.

"No!" I mouthed. "Stop it!"

"What?" he mouthed.

"Really?" I tried to convey with a look. You just farted me out the window, and you think I'm over here because I'm in the mood now? Seriously?

I opened the kit and tried a few of the instruments, and I discovered I was right. The brick was hollow. But none of the instruments were long enough or sturdy enough to give me leverage to pull the end of the brick free.

How in the world would someone hollow out a brick, after the brick had been mortared into a wall? I was getting frustrated. Maybe it was nothing but a poorly made brick.

Joe finally got up and came to watch what I was doing. He handed me his small Swiss Army Knife. He used it to trim his nails. It wasn't large enough to strike fear in the hearts of men. Someone probably gave it to him as a gift. I couldn't see Joe buying it for himself.

I tried scraping with the knife. I tried prying with the screwdriver.

"Try the cork screw," Joe whispered. I had no idea what he was talking about.

Joe took the cork screw and worked the end into the hole in the end of the brick, and it fit. He turned and pressed until he had it securely in one and a half turns. Then he yanked. There was a pop, and Joe slammed his elbow into the bricks on the left side of the window. I slapped my hand over his mouth. He was rolling around on the floor. He had hit his crazy bone, but he still had hold of the Swiss Army Knife and the end of the brick.

I shoved my head out the opening of the window and looked to see what was inside the brick. I saw a fluttering, like paper, and reached into the dark little space. I pulled out an envelope.

My hands were shaking as I opened it. Joe was right beside me, looking down on the dry, brittle paper and smudged ink. The handwriting was old and difficult to read. I could make out some letters, but not words. It was gibberish. I looked down to the bottom of the second page. There was a signature and a date: Johann Olmer, 1789.

Joe and I just stared at each other.

"This hotel wasn't built until 1921," I whispered.

"Those coins were from the 1500's" Joe whispered. "Minted in South America, headed to Portugal. And this letter is in German."

I looked again. It could be German.

I carefully folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. Joe held out the end of the brick for me.

"How did you find that?" he asked. "That's not just dumb luck."

"I was looking for it," I said, pulling the piece of brick off the corkscrew while Joe held onto the knife.

"Someone as crazy as you are hollowed out a brick. How did he even do that?"

"With determination," I told him. I was feeling an even stronger connection to John Doe than ever before. It was like we were on the treasure hunt together.

"How are you going to fix it?" he asked, pointing to the end of the brick. "We broke it."

For once, I knew the answer to that question. I pulled out the little tube of Mama Mia Super Duper Dental Glue and got to work. I worked at unscrewing the cap, but it just wouldn't come loose. How is a senior supposed to open this? Joe was watching me, truly dumbfounded. I handed the tube over, and he managed to muscle it open.

I squeezed a little denture cream on the edges of the piece of brick, and reached back out the window with my left hand, pressing it back into place and holding it secure until my arm ached. It stayed put. I assumed the glue would harden in the hot summer sun, no problem. Just like cement, right?

We straightened the bed covers and closed the window. Joe took the letter and I took the key card, and we split up. We would meet back at the car. I took the key card to the girl at the desk that Joe had been flirting with.

"Excuse me," I said. "Did you happen to see a man come in, about six foot, dark hair, very Italian, sexy as hell?"

"Sure," she said. "He was here about thirty minutes ago, but he left."

"What do you mean he left?" I asked.

"Excuse me?" she said, beginning to get a bit flustered.

I pretended to be speaking into my blouse buttons. "Abort. I repeat. Abort. The suspect has fled on foot." Looking back at the girl, I asked. "Was he with anyone?"

"No, he was alone."

"Did he say anything to you?" I asked. "Did he hit on you?"

"He was chatty," she said. "He wanted to, um, see if his key would fit in one of our locks," she said, blushing.

I gave her a knowing look. "Did you give him your number, or make any plans to contact him?" I demanded.

"No, no," she stammered, completely flustered. "I told him his key was too old for our locks. He didn't seem to like that answer." I worked hard not to smile.

"Did he say where he was staying, where he was going? Anything could be a clue to help catch this man. He's wanted in 13 countries."

She clapped her hand over her mouth. "No, no. What is he wanted for?"

"He seduces women out of their life savings, their inheritance, real estate, cars, whatever they have. He's a silver tongued devil," I warned her. "If he comes back, don't be fooled by his good looks. Contact the authorities. There is a sizable reward for information leading to his capture."

I turned to leave. "Oh, and this belongs to one of your maids. I believe she dropped it by the elevator on four."

And with that, I flounced out of the Hotel, headed towards the car with a smile on my face.


	15. Mr Kleinschmidt

When I got back in the car, we took off, headed towards Hamilton.

"Where are we going?" I asked, since Joe seemed to have a destination in mind.

"To get the letter translated," he told me.

"By who?"

"By our team." I must have looked confused. "We do have a team, you know. Ranger doesn't have the only village in town."

Now I know I looked confused.

"Mr. Kleinschmidt," he said, as if that explained everything.

"Mr. Kleinschmidt speaks German?" I asked. "How do you know?"

"He immigrated."

"He doesn't have an accent."

"He immigrated a very long time ago. He was a boy. He's had plenty of opportunity to pick up the Jersey accent."

"Wow."

We pulled into the lot of my former apartment building. It was like coming home, but weirder, because my apartment was off limits now. It belonged to someone else.

We entered the lobby and hit the button for the elevator. When it opened, I expected to see Mrs. Bestler. Mrs. Bestler didn't look a day over 90. When she was bored, she would play elevator operator at Macy's, riding up and down, announcing the floor number and giving a brief description of the store's offerings. "Third Floor, ladies dresses and hand bags."

I was disappointed not to see Mrs. Bestler. We got in and I automatically hit two. Joe shook his head, leaned in and pressed three. I did a mental head slap.

Sol Kleinschmidt lived in apartment 315. Mr. Kleinschmidt is a riot. For his 80th birthday, someone sent two strippers to deliver a singing telegram. He owns and operates an M-16. And he loves crossword puzzles. He says it keeps his mind active. I invited him to be part of my team just to make a point to Joe, but it turned out he was quite helpful at times. I was really hoping this was going to be one of those times.

The door opened on three, and we walked down the hall to 315. I knocked, and waited, and waited, and waited. Finally, Mr. Kleinschmidt appeared in the doorway.

"Stephanie Plum. What a surprise. Come in, come in," he said, waving us in and closing the door behind us.

We sat on a the couch and Mr. Kleinschmidt sat in his arm chair. Even though I never had the pleasure of meeting her, I always had the feeling that Mrs. Kleinschmidt had just left the room. You knew he hadn't changed a thing from the day she passed. Mr. Kleinschmidt had a maid who came in to clean up after him a couple times a week, so the apartment still had a woman's touch. A little sprig of flowers was sitting in a juice glass on the window sill above the sink. And scented candles had been burning recently.

"What brings you around to see an old fart?" Mr. Kleinschmidt asked good-naturedly.

Joe pulled out the letter, carefully unfolded it, and passed it to Mr. Kleinschmidt. Mr. Kleinschmidt had a lap table he used for his crosswords. He put it in his lap and laid the paper on it to steady it, and put his glasses on.

"Well, let's see now." He studied the letter for quite some time, and turned to the second page. When he was done, he let out a low whistle.

"You've got yourself one heck of a tale here, girly."

"Can you give us a translation?" Joe asked.

"Sure. It's old language. Some of it I'm fudging, but the context is pretty clear."

Joe pulled out his cell phone. "Do you mind if I record the translation?"

Mr. Kleinschmidt and I both looked confused. "I can record your voice with my cell phone. Like a tape recorder," Joe explained.

"Well, I'll be. Sure, fine." Mr. Kleinschmidt put his glasses back on, cleared his throat, and began translating.

"Son, this is my story, so you will know that I was a good man who left you an inheritance. Then there is a Bible reference. Proverbs 13:22. Then it goes on.

"Six childhood friends were pressed into service to earn riches for some kind of prince. Not sure on that exactly. Prince I'm sure of, what kind...can't make it out. Anyway, these friends arrived the New York. The moment their feet touched the ground, they made a pact to seek their own fortune. The prince had already received his fortune.

"So they stole a 'swift vessel', sailed south to warm waters in the month of September. They, in turn, pressed a pearl diver and his son into their service. They made them dive for gold in a sunken wreck. There are some words I can't make out here. Coins and jewels were brought up for two weeks. The man and his son were given a share, but the man did not want it. He was afraid they would be killed for the gold, so he took only five coins.

"The six returned north to secure provisions and to buy land in either Philadelphia or Lancaster. They sailed up a river inland. They arrived in October, and labored until the middle of November to complete their, something. I don't know that word. They were going into the camp in Trent for supplies. Because they remembered the words of the pearl diver, each man took only five coins.

"Christmas night, they were taken and held prisoner. They were separated, kept in homes. He says he could have escaped, but no man could retrieve the gold alone. And the frost had hidden the gold? Something like that. The frost had, something, the gold.

"He was traded for another man and returned to the army. he fled, and was hunted by all men. But he still had the five coins. Because he was a traitor, he was not given land. He was afraid to show the gold to buy the land. He walked until the heat of summer. Then he lived with a family in Lancaster, and he married one of the daughters.

"Peasants living off the land could not buy or sell with gold. There were no palaces or pleasures for sale, so he decided to leave the five gold coins for his son's inheritance. Here, he writes out Proverbs 13:22. 'A good person leaves an inheritance for their children's children, but a sinner's wealth is stored up for the righteous.'

"He goes on to say that because they pressed the pearl diver and his son into service for their own wealth, in the same way they were pressed into service, they had proved themselves unrighteous and they would never have the riches they thought they wanted, but God gave them something better.

"He says for his son to tell his own children that the cedars of Lebanon can be found in Trent Town, and that the wealth of Solomon will be found by Boaz and Jachin. If they find it, it is their inheritance, and if they do not find it, they are to be even more content with the goodness God has given them.

"Signed Johann Olmer, 1789."

Joe stopped recording.

"Where in the hell did you find this?" Mr. Kleinschmidt asked, taking off his glasses. "It reads like a death bed confession. It's a damn treasure map."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I answered.

"Try me." His eyes were begging not to be left in the dark on this one. "I'm too old to run off with it or to spend it on anything debauched," he laughed. "Just tickle my brain, and I'll be happy."

"Anything we tell you or show you, including that letter, can't leave this room," Joe demanded.

"You think anyone would believe me? My housekeeper would have me locked up for dementia."

I glanced at Joe and he nodded. I related the story, and sat back on the couch, exhausted.

"Wowser," Mr. Kleinschmidt said, as animated as I had ever seen him. I thought he would dance a jig if he could get up without assistance. "You two take the cake."

"We're a little stuck," I admitted.

"Why's that?" Mr. Kleinschmidt asked.

"Well, there is obviously more treasure. And John Doe was obviously looking for it. He was in possession of that letter and the coins."

"He was planning to return to the hotel room, but something bad happened," Joe said, pointing out the obvious.

"But whoever killed him didn't take the coins, the room key, or the notebook in his boot," I said, thinking out loud.

"It might have been an accident. The ME didn't sign off on foul play," Joe pointed out. "But, then again, Stephanie had run over the poor guy with a jeep."

"I didn't run over all of him," I protested. "I only ran over one arm."

We all grimaced.

"Well, he probably didn't die from a broken arm. Sounds like he didn't get bonked in the head. Sounds like he wasn't murdered after all," Mr. Kleinschmidt said.

"Even if he was murdered or killed by accident, water could have rotted away a wood or rusted iron weapon. Animals have been in and out of that tunnel. It's amazing we found anything at all."

"Hold it, hold it, hold it," Mr. Kleinschmidt said. "You almost got me. If this hole he's standing in was supposed to be where he was looking for the buried treasure, how could there be concrete? How could there be bricks at the entrance. You think in the 1700's, hoodlums like this made a nice brick archway where they were hiding treasure? That's preposterous."

He was right. Joe and I looked at each other.

"Maybe he wasn't dead in the place the gold is hidden," I suggested.

Joe sat back, rubbing his face with his hands, looking like he was ready for another drink.

"Me too. Let's have a shot." Mr. Kleinschmidt pointed to a decanter and some glasses.

Joe got up and brought them over and poured two shots. I looked at him questioningly.

"It'll burn," he warned me.

"What am I, five?" I complained.

Joe poured another shot for me. Mr. Kleinschmidt looked like he was ready to start laughing as soon as I made a fool of myself, which I was determined not to do.

"Bottoms up," Joe said. He and Mr. Kleinschmidt clinked glasses and tossed them back. Then they both looked at me, trying not to let their grins loose.

I took a breath, knocked it back, and swallowed. The whisky burned my throat. It burned my eyes. It burned my nose when I breathed. It burned all the way down to my toes. But I didn't cough or sputter. "Nice," I croaked.

Joe poured two more, and then looked at me. "I'm good," I croaked, blinking back tears. They were still smiling, but they didn't laugh.

The glasses clinked and the men tossed them back. Joe put the bottle away and I took the glasses to the kitchen sink to wash them out. I took the opportunity to steal a few swigs of water, but it didn't help much. I checked my eyeliner in the door handle to the fridge. It was fine.

Then it hit me. Not the booze, but the idea of booze and water.

"I know why there was concrete in the tunnel from 1776," I cried. I ran back to the living room. Too excited to sit, I stood, doing the very jig I expected to see Mr. Kleinschmidt doing earlier.

"In 1776, the six buried the treasure. Later, gangsters during Prohibition built a tunnel from that estate to the river, and, somehow, their tunnel intersected with this tunnel, and both were concreted."

"OK, I'm with you up to a point," Joe said. That main tunnel from the estate to your little tunnel is square. It's tight. It was made in the 20's and is high quality. It's a few feet thick and still standing. The little tunnel were you found John Doe was framed with rough hewn logs, then inside that, a layer of flimsy rebar and some shot-crete."

"So, when they intersected the original tunnel from 1776, they just shored it up a little, and used it, " I reasoned.

"Why would you build a sturdy, long-lasting tunnel all the way down to within 100 to 150 feet of the water, and they go low budget?" Joe wondered.

"The stock market crashed in '29. Prohibition lasted until '33," Mr. Kleinschmidt said. "Maybe they were broke."

"No. If the tunnel wasn't finished, the estate never would have been built. It was flourishing in the 1920's."

"Yeah," Joe agreed. "They were using that tunnel."

"What if there was another tunnel," I thought out loud. "What if the gangsters were bringing boats up to another tunnel, because this one was flooded all the time," I wondered.

"Or they thought it was flooded all the time," Joe said, sitting up suddenly. "What if they were shown the flooded tunnel at low tide, and told they had to make a different tunnel?"

"Why?" Mr. Kleinschmidt asked. "I don't get it."

"Because John Doe, the book smart man, lied," I realized. "And maybe that lie got him killed."


	16. Coming Kleen

It was late afternoon when we left Mr. Kleinschmidt's. We'd had two drinks but no lunch, so we pulled into Cluck-in-a-Bucket. We parked beside a familiar red Firebird. Lula was here. It came as no surprise, since Cluck-in-a-Bucket is Lula's favorite.

"Hey, girl," Lula called with a wave as we approached her table with our tray.

"Hey, Lula," I said, sliding into the booth next to her. Joe sat across.

"You didn't stay long yesterday. We have a lot of catching up to do."

"I know, I'm sorry. We're just busy."

"You must be on a good paying case, cuz you got Joyce following you around like a tail," she said, jerking her thumb toward the parking lot.

I stopped chewing the French fry in my mouth and turned to look. Joe looked too. Sure enough, there was Joyce, camped out like always, waiting for me to make a move.

"She can't know what we're up to," I said to Joe.

"What are you up to?" Lula asked, excited.

"Nothing. We aren't up to anything," I told her.

"Yeah, right," Lula huffed. "Fine, don't tell me. I don't even want to know. My days of sniffing the dirt are over. I'm a professional now. I'm a schedule coordinator," Lula told Joe.

"I see," Joe said, not paying much attention. His attention was fixed on Joyce.

"Isn't she supposed to be baby sitting the bond's office?" I asked Lula.

"Supposed to be. Who knows?"

"I pulled out my cell and dialed Vinnie."

"What?" Vinnie yelled into the phone.

"What happened to 'Hello'?" I snapped.

"Oh, it's you," Vinnie whined. "I'm busy."

"Busy looking for Barnhardt?" I asked.

"How did you know?"

"She's at Cluck-in-a-Bucket, sitting in the parking lot," I told him.

"I'll be right there," he said, and he disconnected.

"Vinnie's on his way," I relayed to Lula and Joe.

"Oh boy," Lula said, "This is gonna be good."

We watched Vinnie come screeching into the parking lot, blocking Joyce's car, as well as the drive thru lane. Vinnie got in Joyce's face. Joyce shot Vinnie in the face with pepper spray, and tore out, hopping the curb. Cars were honking and Italian hand gestures were flying while Vinnie threw up in the driveway. Someone inside the restaurant saw Vinnie throwing up, and within a minute, there was a domino effect.

"I think I'm gonna be sick," Lula said. I jumped up from my seat, and Joe hugged me to him just in time for me to be sick.

"Oh, man," Lula moaned. "No, I'm okay."

"Great," Joe complained. "This is my favorite shirt."

"Not anymore," I told him.

"Guess again. You two geniuses can get it dry cleaned for me." And with that, Joe pulled his shirt off and handed it to me."

"I'm sorry," a skinny, pimple faced boy said, walking over to Joe. He was pushing a mop bucket on his way to mop up the puke. "No shirt, no shoes."

"I'm going. Believe me, I'm going," Joe assured him. And he left.

"So, how's it going, being married to Morelli?" Lula asked.

I turned to her in utter disbelief. "I just threw up on him. I think he needs a minute."

"It's not like it's the first time you threw up on him," Lula said with a shrug. "What's his problem?"

"I think his problem is that every time you and I are together, disaster is sure to follow."

Lula thought for a minute. "I guess we just live exciting lives."

"Yeah, too exciting." I put Joe's shirt in a plastic take-out bag lying on the next table. "Can you run me to the dry cleaners?"

"Sure. Let's run by the studio. I have some other things there I could drop off at the cleaners."

"Why do you have clothes at the studio?" I asked.

"Well, you know how I sleep on the couch and use my bedroom as a closet?" I nodded. Lula had all of her former outfits from her previous profession.

"Well, I decided to lend my collection to the studio. Melvin's got plenty of room, and he can use them in his photography, you know, for those glamour portraits." I felt my eye starting to twitch. "Plus, I need more space for my new wardrobe. I'm a business professional now. I need to dress the part," Lula said.

I looked down at Lula's latest outfit and definitely felt my eye twitch. She was wearing a bright purple size 10 mini-skirt with a slit up the side, four inch black leather pumps, and a frilly white sleeveless blouse with a very open, round neckline. Around her neck she was wearing a gold necklace that said "Lula", and large gold hoop earrings.

"You look the same as always," I told her.

"Are you kidding? I don't have a spot of leopard on me. I don't have a zebra stripe. I'm totally solid." This was true. Each separate piece of clothing was a solid color. Other than that, I didn't see this as a wardrobe revolution.

"OK, glad you set me straight," I told her.

"You and your blue jeans and t-shirts. Girl, you got no sense of style. And we've already been 'round and 'round about your hair in that sad-ass pony tail."

We climbed in Lula's Firebird. I checked the mirrors for Joyce as we sped towards the studio, but I didn't spot her.

The studio was closed for the day. I waited in the car while Lula used her key, turned off the security alarm, gathered her clothes, and came back.

"I hope you don't mind if we use Kan Kleen," she said.

I felt like throwing up again. "I can't go in there," I told her. "You know why."

I worked there for a day or two a while back. The owner, Mama Macaroni, had tried to take my car as payback for Lula trying to get in on my employee discount. Unfortunately, I had a stalker at the time, and he couldn't resist blowing up Mama Macaroni when she got into my car. Little pieces of Macaroni had rained down all over the parking lot, and some pieces, like the mutant mole on her face, were never found.

"I don't see why not," Lula said. "I go in there all the time."

"No, you don't. The Macaroni's wouldn't dare let you in there," I argued.

"Are you kidding? Do you remember Mama Macaroni? She was mean as a snake. You did everyone of those Macaroni's a favor when you let her get blown up in your car."

I grimaced. "I didn't LET her get blown up in my car. It just happened. It wasn't my fault."

"Sure, I know. But, look on the bright side. I'll bet you could still get a discount if you asked real nice."

I groaned. "No, I'm not going to Kan Kleen."

"Sure you are. It's time to get over it. Move on," Lula told me as she pulled to the curb in front of Kan Kleen.

Great, the scene of the crime, I thought.

Lula got out and bundled up her clothes. I reluctantly crawled out of the car and followed her in.

"Hey," Lula called out. "Customers here."

Mama Macaroni always sat on a stool watching the front. She would be turning over in her grave if she knew no one was watching the front.

Gina Macaroni, Mario and Mama's daughter-in-law, came from the back. "Oh, hey," she said, wiping her wet hands on her apron. "What can I do you for?"

"Stephanie and I brought some things that need dry cleaned," Lula said.

"Oh, yeah?" Gina said, grabbing a pad and writing up our tickets. "Hey, Steph. How's it going? I heard you married Morelli. Nice goin'."

"Thanks," I said, stunned. "How are you doing?" I asked, genuinely interested.

"Oh, fine. I had to quit the day-care. The kids are old enough to be in school all day now. I'm running the shop full time. It's a load, but we're managing. I just hired a new girl. She's in back learning the ropes."

Better her than me, I thought. "How's Mario," I asked.

"Retired, finally."

"That's good," I said.

"Yeah, he's finally able to sit down after 55 years. Mama really kept him hopping, you know. He wakes up every few hours to eat and take care of essentials, but basically, he's as retired as a body can get. Not that I blame him," she said. "Whatcha got?" she asked, pointing to the bag.

"I'm so sorry, but I got sick on Joe's favorite shirt." I was so embarrassed. I could feel my cheeks burning.

"Oh, hon. I used to work daycare. I work puke every day. And here at the cleaners, I can't even tell you the things I've seen." She glanced over at Lula. "All kinds of things." I figured she was referring to most of Lula's undergarments. It is unusual to see a size 10 thong stretched out to those dimensions. But it's worse to see it in action.

"Any chance you ever dry clean books?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

"What do you mean?" Gina asked, perplexed.

"Like, in the event of a fire, where there's water damage. I assume you can get the smoke and stains out of clothes. But what about books?"

"You need a flood and fire restoration company, not a dry cleaners," she said. "But, as it so happens, we do contract work for one. Mira's Mess Removers." She handed me a business card from behind the counter. "Give them a call. Tell them I sent you, and they'll do it for cost."

"Wow, thank you," I said.

"Don't mention it," Gina said, taking the bag from me and handing me a ticket. "You can pick up the shirt tomorrow."

"And you were worried," Lula chided me as we left.

"I wouldn't take it that well if someone killed my mother-in-law," I said without thinking. Lula looked at me, and then we both thought about it.

My mother-in-law was Angie Morelli, a formidable Berg housewife if ever there was one. But it was her mother-in-law, Bella Morelli, Joe's grandma, that struck fear in the hearts of all. Bella was old school Sicilian, and when she put "The Eye" on you, you could bet something awful was going to happen to you.

"OK, but if Gina Macaroni blew up Bella..."

"Yeah, I'd find her dog for free," I agreed as we pulled away from the curb.


	17. Meanwhile at Stiva's

Joe's Point of View

I left Cluck-in-a-Bucket half naked. I think it might have had something to do with the drinks we had earlier. Maybe I needed to stop drinking all together if I was going to be working with Stephanie every day. That was a job that called for a clear head and sound judgment. On the other hand, I was under stress and needed something to help me relax a little. Tough call. Maybe I should have stopped after the beer. Yeah, one beer sounded about right.

I was driving through the Berg towards Stiva's Funeral Parlor, when, of course, I passed my Mother and Grandma Bella. My mother's car mounted the curb and came to a stop in Mr. Tasker's front yard, inches from his bird bath. Perfect. Just perfect.

I pulled over and got out, helping my mother out of the car.

"Joseph Anthony Morelli!" my mother scolded me. "What on earth is the matter with you? You can't go around in public like that! What will people think?"

I rolled my eyes.

"Don't you dare roll your eyes at your mother, young man," Grandma Bella cautioned me. "I won't stand for it."

"I'm sorry, mom. I promise, I had a shirt on when I left the house."

"Well, what happened to it, then?" she demanded.

"It's not my fault," I said, and then froze. Hearing those words coming out of my mouth was surreal. Stephanie had uttered that phrase hundreds of times, and I never once understood how she felt. She never intended to roll in garbage, or blow up a car, or burn down a building. It just happened, like puke on a shirt.

"Oh, really? Fine, tell me, whose fault was it, then?"

"It wasn't anyone's fault. It just happened."

"What happened?" Grandma Bella demanded to know.

I explained the situation. All I got in return were blank stares.

"That girl will never..."

"Stop, right there," I interrupted my mother. "You are about to say something about my wife that you will regret. Don't do it."

My mom pressed her lips together into a tight line, and Grandma Bella gave me "The Silent Eye". Perfect.

"I'm sorry I shocked you into running off the road, but you're fine, and this yard isn't exactly on the TruGreen Chemlawn route. No damage done. So, I'm going to leave you to it while I go find a clean shirt," I told my mother, kissing her on the cheek before turning to leave.

"I'll expect you both at mass on Sunday," she called back after me.

"We'll see," I said, not committing to anything.

I could feel "The Eye" boring into the back of my head. I didn't believe in "The Eye". Grandma Bella had been putting the curse on people all my life, and only a handful of misfortunes had happened within a plausible time frame to result in Burg gossip. Still, knowing your Grandmother is trying to put a curse on you is a little unsettling.

I pulled up in Stiva's parking lot, relieved to find the lot empty. No services or planning meetings going on at the moment. I hurried inside and down the hall to Dave's office.

Dave Nelson was the latest mortician to own and run Stiva's. Stiva himself had sniffed a little too much formaldehyde in my opinion. He went psycho, probably shortly after Stephanie and her Grandmother burned down the original funeral parlor. Seeing your life's work go up in smoke is enough to make anyone crazy. But, he tried to kill Stephanie some time later, and I had a hard time mustering any sympathy for Stiva after that. I shuddered, remembering all those little pieces of Mama Macaroni lying around the Kan Kleen parking lot. And I remembered that I drank a lot in those days...mostly Maalox and Pepto.

Dave was sitting behind his desk, pushing paper. Dave was a huge guy in a designer suit. He used to be a professional wrestler, and he had the thick neck and barrel chest to prove it. His hairline was receding, but he didn't seem too worried about it. He was married to Scooter. Scooter was an average sized guy with blonde hair and blue eyes and a flair for fashion. He wasn't flamboyant or a cross-dresser like some of Stephanie's other friends. But he was a colorful character nonetheless. Scooter did the cosmetology. Dave did the embalming. Huh. Division of labor, I thought. It works.

I stopped in my tracks when I heard a wolf whistle behind me. It was Scooter. Dave looked up and seemed shocked to find me standing there without my shirt on. I hadn't thought anything of it, but now, it seemed maybe should have thought this through a little more.

"Hey, Joe," Scooter said, sounding a little too flirty for my comfort. Dave just sat there with his mouth open, looking me over.

I'm one of those guys who is secure in my masculenity, and I knew this was kind of my fault, but I was feeling really awkward.

"I was wondering if I could borrow a shirt," I said. "Stephanie just threw up on mine," I explained quickly.

"I knew there was a good explanation," Dave said, seeming somewhat relieved.

"I'll get you one of Dave's t-shirts," Scooter offered, retreating down the hall looking just a little disappointed.

"Sorry," I said to Dave.

He shrugged. "We needed a little excitement. It can get pretty morose around here, you know."

I nodded.

"Was there any other reason you dropped in?" Dave asked.

"Yeah, I need a favor."

"Oh, really? First you ask me to give you the shirt off my back, and then you ask for a favor?" Dave teased.

"Hey, you owe me one," I told him. "I know pre-planning sales have been up these last few weeks."

Stiva's had long been the premier place for funerals in the Burg. When their time came, all the Berg seniors longed to be laid out in a Deluxe Slumber Bed with mohogany carvings in Slumber Room number one. Stephanie and her Grandma Mazur were always causing a ruckus. Grandma Mazur couldn't stand to have a casket closed at a viewing, no matter what the cause of death. She had to have a look, and make an outrageous comment. Stephanie was usually chasing down a skip, being stun gunned or stunning someone else, or just burning the place down. One time she dragged a flasher through the lobby, fully exposed, because she wasn't comfortable touching his private parts. So, she dragged him face down and gave him a rug burn he'll never forget. The old ladies of the Burg won't soon forget it either.

Recently there was a full blown riot when we faked my death in order to catch a cop killer. So many non-Berg residents attended my viewing and were introduced to the legendary history of Stiva's that orders for pre-paid funeral arrangements were pouring in. Pre-paid customers took scheduling priority, and getting a good viewing time meant a good turnout. And a good turn out could lead to all kinds of excitement. I guess that says a lot about Trenton.

Dave gave me a guilty smile. "Okay, you've got me on that one." He gestured, offering me a seat across from him. I relaxed into the leather arm chair as Scooter returned with a dark blue T-shirt with a wresting logo on the front.

"Thanks," I said, taking the shirt and shrugging into it. It was about two sizes too large, and I'm not a small guy. I made a mental note not to make Dave angry.

Then, I made another mental note. Dave might be able to take Tank in a fight. I was pretty confident I could equal anything Ranger could dish out. Something to think about. Not that I was eager to get into a fist fight with Ranger. But, sometimes, I really wanted to knock that smug look off his face. There was probably a better way of doing that, but I wasn't sure it would be as satisfying.

Getting back to Dave, I laid out what I could about John Doe, leaving out the part about the gold. Scooter had taken the seat next to mine and was listening intently.

"Stephanie is not going to be satisfied to have John Doe remain anonymous. We need to identify him. Would you consider offering to provide services for the deceased, so the remains could be brought here for us to examine? Since I'm not on the force anymore, I don't have access."

"Sure, we can do that," Dave said. "You've got me curious, anyway. But, on one condition."

"Name it," I said.

"Stephanie has to bring Grandma Mazur to the service."

I felt my eyebrows shoot into my forehead. "I've never heard a funeral director request Edna Mazur's presence before," I told him. "Are you sure you're feeling alright?"

Dave just smiled and nodded.

"She'll pry that casket open, you know that," I told him.

Dave just smiled and nodded.

"And everyone in the Burg knows she will, and they will all want to get a look at the mysterious skeletal remains, too."

"I'm counting on it," Dave said, grinning at Scooter. Something passed between them, and then Scooter was smiling, and then the smile widened to a grin.

"Oh, I get it." Scooter beamed.

"Clue me in."

"I used to do some sculpting when I was in art school years ago. I was watching one of those crime scene investigation shows on TV, and thought I could do one of those facial reconstructions. We have a few old skeletons for anatomy reference down in the basement, so I took a couple of the fake skulls and got a kit, and I've been playing around with it. We always thought it might come in handy if we had a photograph of someone who was burned up or disfigured in some way. We could put the face back with some mortician's putty and some of these tissue depth markers."

"Do you think you could do a realistic facial reconstruction?" I asked.

"Probably not. I'm not trained to do that. But, I could do a pretty good job of making it look presentable, even if it's not a good likeness."

"So, you plan to do what to my grandmother-in-law?" I asked. Stephanie might need to be prepared to handle the situation. If she found out I knew something was up and didn't tell her, she'd get even, and it wouldn't be good.

"We will let everyone know the remains are skeletal and we'll have a closed casket. Everyone in the Burg will know Mrs. Mazur will pry the lid open. I think we'll have a pretty good showing, and it will definitely bring in some business, just like last time," Dave said optimistically.

"It will be the talk of the town when Edna Mazur expects to see a skeleton and instead sees what appears to be a fresh body," Scooter laughed.

"Scooter just wants to see if he can fool anybody with a putty job."

"I'll probably need about a hundred pounds of putty," he said.

"With that kind of gossip going around, it will probably pay for itself," I told him.

The Burg appreciates true artists, including but not limited to arsonists, enforcers, and wheelmen. This meant that the Burg also appreciated a skilled mortician. Stiva's was known for being able to turn back the hands of time by making the deceased appear younger and healthier than they did in life. After word got out that Dave and Scooter could make a skeleton look good, they would be asked to repair bullet wounds to the face, missing noses, and unfortunate autopsy damage. And there would be a run on Deluxe Slumber Beds.

"We have the possible name of an ancester, Johann Olmer from a letter dated 1789. We believe the body probably dates after 1920, but probably before the 1960's", based on the renovations done to the Stacy-Trent." I provided the list of details from the forensics students.

"I was thinking you told me you did some part-time work in a coroner's office, and took some criminology courses in college," I said to Dave. "Can you think of anything that might help us piece together enough evidence to identify John Doe?"

Dave sat back in this chair, crossing his arms as he considered what I was asking him. "I probably couldn't tell you anything more than the students, but I'd be glad to have a look at the body to see if I agree with the medical examiner's findings." He looked thoughtful. "Did they do any DNA testing?" he asked.

"There isn't going to be any DNA in the database. The death occurred too long ago."

"You might be lucky, and get a close match on a living relative," he suggested.

"I don't think the county is interested in paying for the DNA testing," I said. "And neither is the college. They were just taking advantage of having real bones to look at."

"Well, there is one other possibility. I can't make any promises, but I have a friend from school who is working for one of those genome mapping projects."

"Where they try to isolate individual genes to help cure diseases?"

"Some do that. Others try to isolate genetic traits in families, to trace their roots back to ancient times. Other groups are trying to isolate common genes that determine ethnic traits. These groups are smaller, but more willing to accept the DNA. Since you have a letter in German, it would be a good test of their sampling if they were able to prove whether John Doe is of Germanic origin. Knowing whether or not he is related to Johann Olmer might help us get an ID."

"Make the call."


	18. Hit and Run

Joe's Point of View

I got back in the car and called Steph. "Where are you?"

"I'm with Lula. We're on our way over to Pino's to pick up the notebook."

She explained all that happened at Kan Kleen, including her intention to take the notebook to Mira's.

"I'll meet you at Pino's," I told her.

"Fine. See you there." And she disconnected.

This never would have happened if she hadn't called Vinnie about Barnhardt and then got sick on my shirt. I shook my head at the thought that a round of puking could be considered lucky.

I found I was flying through the Berg, racing to get to Pino's. I had to hit the brake and slow down. It had been a rough three days. It was only Wednesday. We were experiencing so many ups and downs, it was making me anxious. "Division of labor," I muttered, trying to calm myself. She's doing what I asked. She's doing what she always does. She's doing her part. Now I needed to get a handle on doing my part.

I was kicking myself. I let her go off without me again. Actually, this time, I left her behind. I left my wife behind with Lula. I was so used to parting company when our paths intersected on the street, I hadn't thought about it until it was too late.

But I couldn't imagine spending every waking, and sleeping, moment together. We would kill each other. I was used to having some space. She certainly was too. How were we going to make this work?

I glanced back and noticed Barnhardt three cars back, changing lanes after I did. This wasn't good. I decided to lose her before doubling back to Pino's. I ran a yellow light, turned left on a side street and ducked into a covered parking area for an apartment complex. Barnhardt whizzed by a minute later, and I pulled out, intending to head the other way. As I reached the street from the parking area, Barnhardt was coming back. I pulled out in front of her, blocking the street, forcing her to come to a screeching stop.

I got out and approached her, mindful that the tramp had pepper spray and she wasn't afraid to use it.

"What the hell?" Barnhardt barked, powering down her window.

"That's what I was going to ask you," I told her. "Why are you following me, Barnhardt?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Morelli."

"Things have changed. We're not BEA's hunting skips that you can horn in on. We're PI's, and we work under contract. Even if you find Maggie Stapleton first, you're not going to collect. Besides, we're off the case. You want to find Stapleton? Go pin a tail on Ranger," I told her.

"You're thinking too small, just like a private Dick," Barnhardt laughed, peeling out in reverse, spinning the car around and taking off.

This was an annoying development. Again, I had a strange feeling I was experiencing someone else's deja vu. Stephanie had crawled into bed drained and looking defeated so many times because she'd been tangling with Barnhardt. I was beginning to have a whole new appreciation for what she had been dealing with. The stories I got from her were short and left out a lot of detail. It was all coming together for me now.

I got back in the car and headed for Pino's, not seeing Barnhardt in my mirror again.

Stephanie and Lula were waiting for me, talking to Richie. Stephanie had the notebook.

"Nice shirt," she said, smiling. I was glad she wasn't mad at me. She was testing the waters to see if I was still mad at her. I wasn't. I smiled back.

"Dave Nelson," I told her by way of explanation.

"I figured," she grinned. "If it were Tank's, it would be solid black."

I shot her a look. "Like I would wear Tank's shirt."

"Why not? You're wearing Dave's."

I shot her another look.

"Sorry," she whispered, trying to stifle her amusement. She was just messing with me.

"I ran into your arch nemesis just now. She was following me."

"Was she following you too well?" she asked.

"Yeah," I nodded. "She pulled a U turn when she lost me."

"She's probably got a tracker on the car," Steph said, not sounding the least bit surprised.

"Has Barnhardt done this before?" I asked, a little unnerved by her calm.

"Yeah. She put a fake lipstick in my purse once."

"Well, whatever she's done, it isn't legal and it's on MY car. And that pisses me off," I growled.

"Good. You can deal with her this time."

"I think I will."

She said goodbye to Lula and followed me out.

I pulled into the nearest car wash and parked next to the vacuum cleaner. If I was going to be inspecting my vehicle, it would be less suspicious here. Stephanie and I got out. She emptied her bag in the seat and sorted through the mess. I searched my seat, the dash, the back seat, the trunk, and worked my way around to Steph's side. Nothing in the glove box.

We checked our phones, taking the batteries out and examining the insides, even pulling and replacing the sim cards. I checked Stephanie's stun gun and pepper spray. Nothing.

I laid down and had a look under the car. I didn't really know what I was looking for. I had in mind one of those magnetic hide-a-key contraptions. I was hoping for flashing lights, but didn't see anything. I flashed a mini-Maglite around. Nothing.

Just to be sure, I power washed the engine compartment, wheels and undercarriage, hoping to dislodge the tracker. Nothing.

We got back in the car and headed for Mira's.

Mira's Mess Removers was located in a former storage facility. Mira was about sixty, with short salt and pepper hair that blended in with the soot smudges on her hands and face. Stephanie had called her from Kan Kleen and she was expecting us.

"Let's see that little gem," she said, as Stephanie handed her the baggie containing the frozen notebook.

Mira slipped on latex gloves, then removed the notebook from the baggie, inspecting it carefully.

"This is a good job," she told us. "You got it cleaned off and as dry as you could just pressing it on a towel. The freezer was working properly. There isn't too much icing on the outside. It hasn't had time to start drying yet. What I'm going to do is place it in a special machine that will keep the temperature cool but the air will be as dry as a desert. It's called a desiccant air dry distribution system. It does a far superior job to anything you could do at home, and it will do it much faster than freezing, although, freezing is a good method too. We want to prevent any mold or mildew, prevent ink from running and bleeding onto the other pages, and we want to preserve the leather as best we can. The drying will be a little hard on the leather, but we can begin applying oils once the dampness has been removed. That should help soften the leather again."

"How long?" I asked.

"I can't say. It just depends on the materials. Every job is different. Optimistically, we could have a look at the pages by Friday if they will separate cleanly, but the book will probably need to remain in the unit until sometime next week for proper restoration."

"That beats the heck out of three months or more in the freezer," Steph agreed. "Thank you so much for doing this."

"That's what we do," Mira said, smiling. "It's always a pleasure to restore an heirloom. I'm just glad I didn't have to wade through four feet of water in a dark basement with an oxygen tank on my back to retrieve it," she said, as if she had just told a joke. We must have looked grim. "No, seriously, that's what we do. Please, take some cards," she said, handing us both a small stack. "If you will pass these out for me, we will be square," she told us.

We promised to keep her cards handy, pocketing them as we left.

"Now what?" I asked, leaning against the car, pulling Steph into me for a kiss, glad to find she tasted like mint gum and Pepsi.

"What happens if Mira takes a look in that notebook and figures out we are after treasure?" she asked.

"I doubt that will happen. This guy had the notebook on his person. We don't even know that it contains information about the treasure. If it does, it won't be easy to understand. I'm going to bet it will be in code or disguised to appear to be something else."

"Sure," Steph said, relaxing a little. "John Doe was a smart guy."

"Not smart enough," I said, dully. I rested my cheek on top of Stephanie's head, hugging her to me again. It was then that I spotted Barnhardt. "Son of a..." Stephanie pulled back and looked at me. "it's Barnhardt."

We got in the car, and I started down the street as if I hadn't seen her. She pulled in behind us a few cars later.

"Call Eddie. Have him pull her over," I said.

"Crap, my phone's dead. I forgot to charge it," She said. I handed her mine, and she made the call. We gave Eddie the intersection where we wanted him to intercept Barnhardt. We stayed on the line until he was ready for us. Then I hit the gas and Barnhardt started passing cars.

My eyes were on Eddie. He was waiting at the corner of the next intersection. Without warning, the car on Stephanie's side swerved into our lane, forcing me into oncoming traffic. I cut left, standing on the brakes as we screeched into a small strip mall parking lot and out of harm's way.

"What the hell?" I cursed.

"It was DeChooch!" Steph gasped. "I was looking right at Eddie DeChooch. He looked over at me as we were passing him, and he recognized me and tried to hit us." She was breathing hard from the adrenaline rush.

I tore out of the lot, going the opposite way. I wasn't looking for DeChooch. I was trying to keep my Cupcake safe.

Eddie had seen it all, and was in pursuit of DeChooch. My first instinct was to call for backup, but there was no radio in my car. Eddie was on top of it. I knew he had called it in. But part of me rebelled at the thought of driving the opposite direction of my brother in blue. I wasn't even thinking about Barnhardt anymore.

I grabbed my police scanner and turned it on so I could listen to the chatter, but I had already missed most of it. DeChooch hit a car, and now DeChooch was turned around, in pursuit of us with another car in pursuit of him. Eddie gave a description of the car in pursuit of DeChooch. It was Barnhardt.

Stephanie wasn't used to listening to the police chatter, so I tried to translate for her.

She was suddenly alarmed." Why is DeChooch after me?" she squealed, turning around in her seat to look out the back window.

"It probably has something to do with you sending him to jail. Or it may have been for zip-tying him at Uncle Mickey's," I reminded her. "Keep your head down," I barked. I knew DeChooch had an itchy trigger finger. The old man may have been legally blind and half deaf, but he was crazy, and he might get a lucky shot off.

"Why isn't he in custody?" She wondered.

"Uncle Mickey is a pacifist. He doesn't like to make enemies. He let DeChooch go. Sit down and keep your seatbelt on," I ordered.

The scanner squawked again. All cars began responding to reports of a gun battle on Comstock. That was gangland. Eddie was going to be lucky to get any backup now.

DeChooch was gaining on us. I knew we were endangering lives, so I took a side street and headed to the least populated streets in the area. It was residential, but most people were at work right now and it was quiet.

DeChooch never saw it coming. He was so focused on Stephanie, he was completely unaware that Barnhardt was following him. Never mind about Eddy bearing down, lights and siren. Barnhardt tapped DeChooch's bumper, rolling the car. DeChooch was rolling sideways down the street. Barnhardt hopped the curb and took off. I hit the brakes and backed up to the smoking car that was bottom-up in the middle of the street.

Eddy and I pried the door open and pulled DeChooch from the wreck. Stephanie was torn between staying in my car, away from DeChooch, and staying with me. She had her door open and was just standing there.

We could smell gasoline, so we pulled back to Eddy's car, laying DeChooch in the road as Eddy called for paramedics.

We knew there would be a wait for the ambulance due to the Comstock situation, so we debated taking him to St. Francis ourselves. DeChooch was unconscious, but breathing on his own, and we didn't detect any broken arms or legs. The most likely injury would be head and chest, which are much harder to detect.

Eddy's radio squawked, and the dispatcher advised a 20 minute wait could be expected. We decided we should take him to the hospital rather than wait.

When I turned to tell Stephanie to follow us in my car, I realized that Barnhardt had returned. Stephanie was engaged in an argument with Barnhardt. When I say argument, I mean cat fight. There was hair pulling, and bra snapping involved. For a second, Eddy and I were amused. Then, the anger hit me.

I jumped up, ready to come to the rescue and arrest Barnhardt. Scratch that. I would detain Barnhardt and Eddy would arrest her. I was about to charge in when I saw a gun fall out of Barnhardt's purse. It hit the ground, and both women scrambled for it. I couldn't see who had hold of it, but I knew what was going to happen.

I dove to the ground as the gasoline ignited and DeChooch's car exploded. Flames licked up 20 feet into the air and black smoke billowed above us, blocking the sunlight. It was surreal. I wasn't usually on scene when a vehicle exploded around Steph. My ears were ringing and I thought the hair on the back of my arms might be singed. So, this was what it was like.

Eddie was beside me as I rounded the smoldering wreckage to find Stephanie unconscious on the ground. Barnhardt was peeling out.

"Shoot her!" I yelled at Eddie, who was just standing there, palms out in a useless gesture as he watched Barnhardt's vehicle getting smaller and smaller in the distance.

"I wish!" he yelled back.

I had Stephanie in my arms, gently shaking her face, trying to get her to wake up. "Cupcake? Can you hear me? Wake up." I didn't see any blood on her. She might have hit her head.

After a few seconds of sheer panic, I was relieved when she opened her eyes.

"Cupcake," I breathed, "You okay?"

She nodded oddly. "I got the gun," she whispered.

"I noticed," I told her.

"So Barnhardt tagged me with a stun gun," she whispered.

I knew what that felt like. I helped her to her feet.

Eddie called in the vehicle explosion, and requested the ambulance again. We couldn't leave the scene now. We would have to wait.

I helped Stephanie hobble around the fire, back to Eddy's vehicle. That's when we realized DeChooch was missing, along with Eddy's blue and white.

"You've got to be kidding me!" Eddy screamed, throwing his hat on the ground in disgust.

"Sorry," Steph groaned.

"It's not your fault," Eddie assured her. "We thought he was unconscious."

"He does that," she said.

We both looked at her.

"He plays dead, and then disappears when you aren't looking."

"Good to know," Eddie said, sarcastically. He could have used that information about sixty seconds ago.

We had Steph checked out by EMS when they arrived. The firemen arrived, but it wasn't Kenny and Buckey, so we left Eddy to write up the reports. He didn't really need us for that. We would drop by the station to sign the statements later.

I decided to head home. I wanted to get cleaned up, and I wanted to put on my own shirt.

I expected Stephanie to be more flustered than she was. But within five minutes, her sense of normal had returned, even if mine hadn't. It was rush hour, and traffic was like molasses. I was frustrated with crawling at five miles per hour in a thirty. Steph was fiddling around with her phone charger.

"Problem?" I asked.

"I can't get the charger to connect with the cigarette lighter. See? It doesn't fit." She was right. The charger was just a little too large to fit in the socket for the cigarette lighter. It should be a standard size. It should fit.

I pulled over.

"Where's the cigarette lighter?" I asked. Stephanie handed it to me. It looked like a cigarette lighter, but it felt too light. I disconnected Stephanie's phone charger and pushed the cigarette lighter in. Nothing happened. It didn't get hot.

I carefully slid my finger into the opening for the lighter and pulled. The silver socket slipped free. It was an adapter. Stephanie had been trying to plug a full-sized adapter into an adapter made for the slightly smaller lighter.

"Huh. Well, it's probably a cheap piece of crap from South America that they included with the other modifications," I said while I put my finger to my lips to indicate silence. Stephanie's eyes widened and she nodded understanding.

"Oh well," she said, playing along. "I'll just charge my phone when we get home."

I slid the adapter and lighter back in. Then we both got out of the car.

"I think we found the tracker," I told her. "Barnhardt must have replaced the lighter with this tracker. It's getting juice from the car, but it's not high end or it would work like a regular lighter."

"I don't think it's just a tracker. I think she can hear us."

Now my eyes were wide. "What did she say?" I asked.

"She knows we're after a treasure, and she wants it."

"That's what she meant by the Stapleton girl being small potatoes," I realized.

"Yeah, I thought that's what she was after too. But she wanted the map."

"What map?" I asked.

"She misunderstood what she heard about the letter. She thinks the letter is a treasure map."

I tried to think back over every conversation we had while in my car since Monday, but it was a blur. "Does she know about the notebook?"

"I don't think so. I told you about Mira's on the phone, and I don't remember talking about it in the car on the way to Pino's."

"Good. Well, if Barnhardt insists on being a pain in the ass, I think we should let her," I said.

"We're going to lead her on a wild goose chase," Stephanie assumed.

"Yeah. I'll leave that part to you, Cupcake. Distraction and diversion is definitely part of your job description."

"Fine," she said with a sly smile. I knew she was thinking of something, and I was sure I didn't want to know what it was. At least, not right now.


	19. Cannon Ball

Stephanie's Point of View

Joe and I slept in till about 8:30 the next morning. That was one of the things I loved about Joe. When duty did not call, he was as lazy as I was.

We probably should have been working a little harder. The bills were coming due soon. Time was wasting. But, I just couldn't get motivated to worry about anything this morning. Joe was always extra attentive after an explosion threatened my life. I smiled just thinking about last night.

"Thinking about me, Cupcake?" Joe asked, padding sock footed into the kitchen.

I just smiled mysteriously as I handed him a cup and he poured himself some coffee.

"Or were you thinking about what we're going to do to Barnhardt?" he asked.

"That too," I said as he laid a good-morning kiss on me.

"So, what's the plan?" he asked.

"I don't have one yet. I was trying to think of one last night, but then...I got distracted."

Joe smiled. "Sorry." He didn't sound sorry.

"What I would really like to do is run over to Bernie's to see if I can borrow a metal detector. I would like to go back to the area around the tunnel to see if I can find the gold."

Bernie Kuntz and his dad owned Kuntz Appliance. He was another member of my crack-pot team.

"The treasure isn't going to be out in the open. And I think it's telling that John Doe only had five gold coins."

"They are the five gold coins Johann Olmer gave to his son," I agreed. "John Doe never found the treasure. But according to the story in the letter, he was probably close. The treasure was buried up river. I assume they were still living on the boat. And it has to be buried. The treasure was hidden in late fall, before the ground froze. Remember, Johann said the frost hid the treasure?"

"And you think you're going to find it with a metal detector?"

"I'm thinking metal detectors weren't commercially available in the 1920's. John Doe might have found it if he'd had access to a metal detector," I reasoned.

"What about Barnhardt?" Joe asked.

"I don't know. But I guess we'll be taking your car again."

Joe looked pained. "She's tracking the Jeep too, Steph. I looked after you fell asleep last night."

"So, she was listening when I found the coins?" I asked.

"No, probably not. Even if Joyce had been sitting in the parking lot of the marina listening, which is unlikely, you raced off on the water. She would have to be in range to pick up the audio signal. She couldn't have kept up. Once you were in the vicinity of the estate, there weren't even roads. She might have been able to pick up the tracker's signal if it's uploading to an app. It might provide her with your GPS coordinates, but she probably couldn't get close enough to hear anything."

I had a mental image of Joyce sitting in the marina lot, her butt asleep, her legs tightly crossed, and her eye twitching from the monotony. Oh, wait, that was me on a stakeout. Would she really sit there for hours waiting to hear anything we said? Surely not. Did she just follow the vehicles when she realized they were moving? Yeah, that was more likely.

How did she even get the trackers in the vehicles, I wondered. The Jeep was easy to access since I didn't usually have the cover on it, but Joe's car was usually locked with the convertible top up. It was most likely on the houseboat at the time she planted the tracker. And if she was that close, wouldn't she have bugged the houseboat too? And if Joyce could do it, anyone could. Especially Ranger.

My mind started racing out of control. I suddenly realized that someone could have been listening to us last night. Maybe Joyce. Maybe Ranger. Maybe the entire control room at Rangeman. If it was Joyce, she would have recorded it, and sounds of our delicious night together could be playing in households all across the Berg at that very moment. That horrifying realization was immediately followed by an even more chilling realization. Joe probably knew Joyce could be listening. That meant Joe knew, but he didn't want me to be distracted last night, so he didn't say anything.

That thought hit me so unexpectedly that I involuntarily spewed a mouthful of coffee all over Joe, who was sitting across from me.

Joe was sitting in stunned silence, eyes closed, coffee dripping from his nose and chin. "What - was - that?" he asked slowly. I could tell he was counting to ten.

"The house boat could be bugged," I whispered. "And you knew it last night, didn't you?" I accused.

Joe got up from the table and went to the sink to wash his face. Then he came back to the table with a damp cloth and wiped up the mess. He tossed the cloth in the sink, took off his shirt and went to the bedroom to change. Moments later, he returned to his seat as if nothing had happened.

I continued to stare at him open-mouthed.

"The houseboat is not bugged," he assured me, pouring himself a bowl of cereal before pouring me one. "I swept it Saturday before we installed the security system. And then I swept it again after Ranger and Hector left. I borrowed the equipment from Vice."

I got up to get the milk. "You didn't trust them," I concluded.

"I am responsible for security here, Cupcake, not Ranger."

"But Ranger didn't plant any listening devices, right?"

"No, he didn't. And neither did Joyce. I didn't think to check the cars."

"Oh," I said, feeling foolish.

"Do you really think I would let someone listen to us?"

"I don't know. You're pretty proud of your performance," I told him.

He just shook his head in disbelief. "You're still mad about the bathroom walls," he concluded.

"Yeah," I agreed. "I don't think I'll ever be able to forget about that."

"That was a long time ago. I was immature, and I didn't think about what it would mean."

"I know." I blew out a sigh.

"I'm sorry," he told me, apologizing for the hundredth time for writing poems about me on several bathroom walls around town.

"I'm sorry I broke your leg," I told him, for the first time. "That should have covered it." The next time I saw Joe was two years later when he got back from the Navy. I ran him down on the sidewalk with my dad's Buick. I always insisted it was an accident, but Joe knew he had it coming.

"What are you planning to do with Joyce?" he asked, trying to steer the conversation back to the original track.

"I can take the Jeep today, then, if she can listen in. I'll take her with me to Bernie's and let her know I'm borrowing the metal detector to find the treasure."

"You mean WE can take the Jeep today and WE can borrow the metal detector and WE can lead Joyce around wherever we want," he corrected. "You're not getting rid of me that easily today, Cupcake."

"Fine. WE will," I said.

"Where are we taking her?"

"By now, she's aware there is a tunnel. We can go to the Parkside Avenue tunnel at Cadwalader Park. It's along the Hudson. We can lose her there, leave the Jeep, and have my dad pick us up. Then the three of us can go back to the estate and see what we can find."

"OK, that sounds like a plan," he agreed.

To my surprise, Joe got up for his phone and called my dad himself. That was weird.

"Hi, dad," Joe said. That was even weirder. They were so familiar with each other. It freaked me out. Joe was more comfortable talking to my dad than I was.

They worked out the details, and Joe and I got in the Jeep. My spidey sense was on overload, knowing everything I said would be broadcast within a mile radius. So, I didn't say anything. We were supposed to be leading Joyce to Bernie's. Joe prompted me as we left the marina parking lot, even though there was no sign of Joyce.

"Where to?" He asked.

"Bernie's," I said.

"Why?" he prompted.

"I want to borrow a metal detector." I felt like I was on stage in a grade school play, with Joe feeding me my lines. My mind was a complete blank. I was paralyzed knowing I was in front of an audience, albeit a audience of one.

"You want to go poking around for that buried treasure down by the tunnel, don't you?" Joe asked, filling in all the blanks.

"Yes," I said. I was checking the mirrors. No Joyce. Figures.

We drove to Bernie's, and I got out. Joe waited for me in the Jeep, keeping an eye out for Joyce.

Bernie was congenial as ever, and he gave me a lesson in how to use a metal detector. I had used one before, but never as sophisticated as this one.

The box was labeled The Mine Master 2000. For land and sea. Perfect for prospecting in heavily mineralized areas. Identifies coins, nuggets, and vein traces to depths of 200 feet. Completely submersible. Land settings allow accurate readings even in irregular soils. Light weight. Hip mount belt eases back and shoulder stress.

I nearly passed out when I saw the price tag.

"I know you're good for it," Bernie told me, giving me a pat on the back. "Go get 'em!"

Bernie was usually pretty enthusiastic about my little adventures. In this case, he was probably more enthusiastic about selling me a five thousand dollar metal detector. I would have to pay for it in the event I didn't bring it back in like-new condition. He very likely just met his sales quota for the month.

I thanked him, sort of, putting the metal detector back in the box. I hauled it out to the Jeep and jumped in.

"Is that the metal detector?" Joe asked. I just looked at him like "duh". Then I remembered that Joyce might be late tuning into the program.

"Yeah, Bernie let me borrow it, as long as I bring it back in the same condition," I told him. This got me a quizzical look. "We need to be really careful with it," I told him.

"How careful?" he asked.

"Very, very careful," I said, indicating five and a K with finger gestures.

Joe swallowed hard. "That careful?" he asked, his voice sounding a little pinched.

"Yep," I said, blowing out a sigh. "Let's get going. Cadwalader Park."

"You got it," Joe said, pulling out into traffic.

We were driving down Parkside when I noticed my dad's cab parked on a side street. He was in position. Now all we needed was Joyce. I checked the side mirror. There she was, quite a distance back this time. She knew where we were going, so she didn't need to risk getting any closer.

We took our time parking and securing the Jeep. I took my bag and Joe took the metal detector, removing it from the box and securing it to his belt. We were just two people out geocaching at the public park. I took out my phone and stared down at it periodically, as if we were using the GPS. We walked around aimlessly towards the tunnel until we noticed Joyce hiding behind a large oak.

"It's time," Joe said into his phone. Joe and my dad had that walkie talkie thing going on their phone.

"I'll be there in 30 seconds," Dad responded.

We crested the hill and continued to appear nonchalant until we were out of sight. Then we high-tailed it back to Parkside Avenue where Dad stopped in the road to let us in the cab. We ducked down, me in the backseat, and Joe in front with Dad. When we were clear of the park, we sat up.

"That was fun," Dad said dryly.

"Yeah, it was exhilarating," I said sarcastically. "We lost her, but we didn't get to enjoy the look on her face. She'll probably spray paint my Jeep while we're gone." This was true. She would be getting even.

We drove back to the now familiar estate. We were technically trespassing, but since it was state property and it was not clearly posted, we decided to press forward.

The area was wooded around the hole we had previously drilled down into the tunnel. The hole was surrounded with caution tape wrapped around nearby trees. Sure, that will keep kids from playing in the big hole full of water, I thought.

We were standing beneath a canopy of green, shaded from the summer sun, with a nice breeze coming in off the water. I'm no arborist, but I was pretty sure there were no cedar trees hiding in this deciduous forest. I saw oaks, elms, maples, aspen, sycamore, and the weeping willows along the bank. But I did not see any cedar trees.

I walked over to an old oak tree with thick meandering branches that were low to the ground. It was easy to climb. I was almost done securing the C-clamp attachment to the stuffed crow when Joe and Dad noticed I wasn't with them.

"Stephanie, what in the world...?" Dad started.

"It's one of Carl's inventions," I told him.

"Oh, Lord," he groaned.

"This one's pretty good," I told him. I pulled the smart phone controller from my purse, and pressed the camera button. The bird automatically adjusted his stance and zoomed in on us. Dad raised an eyebrow, looking surprised and maybe even impressed.

"It shoots tranquilizer darts, too." I pressed the button with the little red dot, and a red laser sight shot out of the end of the camera and danced on a nearby tree. "I press a second time to turn off the light. If I hold the button three seconds, it fires." I pressed the button once to turn off the laser.

"How can that work?" Dad puzzled, taking the smart phone from me. "What did he use, some kind of measuring tool? How can it know where to point?" He watched the bird follow the pointer. "It overrides the primary command to track the remote, and tracks the laser refraction," he mused. "The military uses that kind of technology for precision-guided munitions launched from an aircraft. Where did Carl get this kind of spare parts?"

"I thought it was just a cheap laser pointer," I said.

"Maybe, but there's a receiver in the bird..." Dad said, looking up at the crow. "What the hell did Carl do for a living before he was a rogue taxidermist?"

I looked to Joe, who just shrugged. "He's dating your grandmother, not mine."

"I don't know. I'll ask him next time I see him," I said, slipping the smart phone back into my jeans pocket before Dad shot Joe just to see it work.

"OK, enough messing around, let's start looking for the gold," Joe said. Suddenly, with an electronic gizmo on his hip, he was into this. Joe walked around the hole, trying to interpret the electronic noises emanating from the metal detector.

"OK, let's think," I said. "Six men spent at least a month hiding the treasure, so either they buried it deep, or they buried it in some kind of Goonie trap."

"Real pirates didn't use booby traps," Joe said, ignoring me.

"Well, it doesn't take six men a month to dig a hole," I argued. "But it might take a month to dig a large pit. They cut down dozens and dozens of trees to build a tunnel. If they truly wanted to keep the location hidden, they didn't cut down all the trees around the pit. They dragged them in from farther away. And I didn't hear anything in the story about having horses to help them." I suddenly had an image of six marines doing that "hut, hut,hut" march with a log over their shoulders.

Dad had listened to the recording of Mr. Kleinschmidt's translation on the way over.

"If I were going to dig a pit that large, I would choose a clearing. I wouldn't want to dig in a forested area. Too many tree roots. Steph is right. The carried in the logs. These trees around us have had plenty of time to grow. Joe, you and the firemen had to hack through logs to get down into the tunnel. Stephanie's right. Those men dug a very large pit in a clearing, and then created the tunnel and then covered the logs with dirt. They build up the land we're standing on, by hand. See how the trees around here are younger than the surrounding more forested areas along the river?"

"Six men, four to six weeks," Joe murmured.

"Motivated men," I added. "Winter was coming."

"And they weren't expecting to retrieve their treasure until spring?" Joe wondered.

"No man could retrieve the gold without the others," Dad repeated Mr. Kleinschmidt's words. "She's right. It could be booby trapped somehow. Without knowing what you're getting into, it could be dangerous."

"That means maybe John Doe wasn't working alone. Maybe we should wait to see what's in the notebook," I said.

"Well, we're here now, so let's get back to having a look," Joe said.

Joe walked slowly over the area where the body was found below. There was suddenly a very loud electronic signal. Dad and I ran over to look at the detector readings.

"Iron," Joe said. "I'm not sure," Dad said. That's a very large blip. And it could be that they buried the treasure inside something iron, like a box."

"Must weigh a ton," Joe mused.

"Maybe that's why no one man could retrieve it alone," I said.

Dad nodded. "One man could never have dug it out and the water coming in would have been a barrier as well. Once winter came, the ice from the river would have formed a barrier over the treasure."

"Wow, we did it! We figured it out!"

"Hardly," Joe said, not sharing my enthusiasm. "First, we don't know what's down there. Second, we don't have any way to bring it up. And third, it is possible there are other traps. We still don't know how John Doe died. We do need to look at the notebook before we go down there to dig, but I do want to get closer readings." Joe turned to my Dad. "Give me a hand down, will you?" Dad lowered Joe down with a tow rope he kept in the trunk of the cab.

Joe was standing in about three to four feet of water, depending on where he was standing.

"What do you see?" Dad called down.

Joe flashed his mini-Maglite around. "Not much, same as last time." He picked up same signal, even more strongly due to being closer to the source. "It sort of looks round," he said. "And it's about two to three feet in diameter. And it's deep. It's dense and it's deep." He walked around, getting just minor blips from the detector. "I want to go up the larger tunnel, see what I can find. Maybe there is another tunnel to the river," he called up.

Joe stepped over the concrete and wood that had fallen into the hole as he passed beneath us.

"Do you think you'll have cell reception down there," dad called.

"Not sure," Joe admitted. He started up the tunnel and dad's phone gave a walkie talkie chirp. "Do you read me?" Joe asked.

"Yep," Dad said.

Joe's sloshing changed to footsteps as he walked up the incline and entered the square concrete tunnel. "Can you hear me now?" Joe asked.

"Yep," Dad said.

I did a mental eye roll.

Joe was reporting in about every 20 paces. At 200 paces the phone crackled. "There's another tunnel." That transmission was followed by a roaring sound, and I was pretty sure I could hear Joe screaming at the top of his lungs, and he wasn't using the cell phone to place that call.

Dad lowered the tow rope and Joe was immediately swinging from the other end and clawing his way up out of the hole.

"What the hell?" Dad asked.

"RUN!" Joe yelled, scrambling to his feet. He was trying to run with the metal detector securely fastened to his belt. He ignored it, grabbing my hand and turning me so that I was being pushed ahead of him.

"BEAR!" My dad yelled.

Suddenly it all made sense. My feet were in total agreement with my brain. I was running for all I was worth.

"Get in the car," Dad was yelling.

He didn't have to tell me twice. I dove into the back with Joe right behind me. My dad blew my mind when he slid over the hood of the cab, smooth as silk, and was seated behind the steering wheel seconds before impact. The big black bear was really pissed off.

"What did you do?" I asked Joe, wide eyed as the bear roared into the side window next to Joe.

"She's got cubs down there," Joe panted. "Drive!"

Dad cranked over the engine, but it must have sounded like another roaring bear. Momma bear roared even more loudly, then she reached under the car and flipped us over. Dad turned the engine off.

"I'm open to suggestions," Dad said, as we started spinning around and around after receiving a solid kick to the trunk.

"I'm gonna be sick!" I announced.

"Where's your bag?" Joe asked.

"Doesn't matter. My gun is at home in the cookie jar," I told him.

"Where's your gun?" Dad asked Joe.

"I dropped it," he admitted, mentally beating himself up. "I can't believe I dropped the damn gun."

"Understandable," I said between gasps as we were spun viciously again, and then rocked like teeter totter. As we were flipped back over to land upright, I remembered the smart phone in my pocket. I grabbed it and pressed the camera button and zoomed in. The camera had signal and had a lock on us. But the bear was between me and the bird. I could shine the light, but there would be no reflection back to the bird.

"Just push the button. It'll have to go through the bear to hit you," Dad said, adrenaline making his voice sound tight and strained.

A hairy paw punched through the side window, reaching in for us. Joe shielded me as I held down the button, closed my eyes, and counted to three. There was a vicious growl and the momma bear spun around to see what had hit her. I hit the button again. She lurched a little, sliding down the side of the car. The glass was falling out of the window frames. We were going to be bear chow if I was out of darts. I hit the button a third time, and she finally slid to the ground with a loud growl.

We weren't sure getting out of the car was safe, but staying in the car wasn't an option either. The bear was on her feet again, but swaying. She was half tranqued and feeling woozy.

"Climb!" Joe ordered. He gave me a boost into a monstrous, dead tree. Most of the bark and branches were gone and it was bleached gray. It wasn't going to be an easy climb for woozy bear. Joe scrambled up behind me, dragging Dad up behind him with the tow rope that was still in his hand. I think he had been unable to let go of it.

As we climbed higher, the metal detector dangling from Joe's belt began screeching loudly. The bear had begun to follow us up the tree, but the noise was foreign to her ears. She was confused and spooked. She considered climbing again, but Joe turned the volume all the way up. It looked like it was giving her a headache. She slowly lumbered towards the hole. Looking back once, she gave a low growl, and then jumped in the hole with a splash.

I felt the seat of my pants to make sure I hadn't wet myself.

"Do you think she'll be okay?" I asked, suddenly concerned that she might drown.

Dad just stared at me. "I don't care," he said, seriously. "She tried to kill us."

"She's going to be fine," Joe reassured me. "She's better off than we'll be if she comes back."

"She's living in the other square tunnel that leads to the river?" I asked.

"Yeah, way down in there. She came running at me with two little ones following her."

The metal detector was still screeching. "Turn that thing off," I hissed.

Joe looked down at the reading. "It's iron. It looks like the same sort of signature I saw below, and it's coming from inside this tree," he said. He worked the belt loose and managed to hang the detector from a stubby piece of broken branch. Then he climbed further up into the tree. "What the..." He was standing on his tip toes on the largest remaining branch, looking over the edge of the broken top of the tree trunk.

"What are you doing?" I asked him.

"I think this tree is hollow," Joe shouted down. "And I think it's full of cannon balls."


	20. Building Bridges

We all piled into what was left of the car. The engine started, and we rolled off slowly, the wheels wobbling, and one tire flat by time we made it back to the road to call the cab company.

"I'm really sorry about your cab," I told Dad as the tow truck driver dropped us off at the Jeep. "Are you going to lose your job because of this?"

"Nah. She left plenty of fur behind, and look at those bear claw scratches on the trunk. We were just driving along when a bear attacked us. You can see where she hit the side of the car. It's not my fault." This made me smile. "Besides, how else was I ever going to get a new cab?" We laughed. "Don't worry about me."

Dad gave Joe a casual salute. Joe nodded back. We got in the jeep and drove off.

I looked into the back seat at the metal detector. It was muddy, scratched, and the headphones were missing.

"I think we just bought ourselves a metal detector," I told Joe.

"I noticed," he said. "We'll call it start up expenses. Tools of the trade. After all, you never know when we'll need to detect something. It pays to be prepared," Joe reasoned.

"Sounds good to me," I said. "But we don't have any operating capital to pay for it," I reminded him.

"Didn't Bernie say we were good for it?"

"Yeah."

"Well, then he's extending us credit. So, we'll pay him when we get paid."

"Sounds fair," I reasoned.

Joe just smiled at me. He was amused with my need to rationalize everything.

"Don't worry, Cupcake. We're going to find that treasure. We can go have another look at the notebook tomorrow. Maybe then we'll have a better idea of what's down there."

It was going on noon. We were pulling into Pino's when Joe's cell rang. He mostly listened, then said, "We'll bring pizza. See you in twenty."

"Who was that?"

"Dave Nelson."

We got two large pizzas and soda, and took it to Stiva's. We got settled in the kitchen in Dave and Scooter's living quarters. The kitchen was large and white, and completely modern. The dishes were square and shiny black with matching silverware. Scooter and Dave were as neat and tidy as Stiva had been, but without the creep factor.

"Well," Dave started. "We have some news on John Doe."

"He's here?" I asked.

"Yes. Arrived yesterday evening. Before we made the arrangements to have him brought to Stiva's, I made a few calls. I got permission from the coroner to have a wisdom tooth extracted. The professor at the college agreed to prepare a DNA sample for testing. The sample was overnighted to a friend of mine. His company acts as an information collection hub for a number of other organizations involved in human genome mapping."

I looked confused.

"Just get to the results," Joe told him.

"You need to appreciate the process," Dave said.

"Wait, I thought the coroner's office and the college refused to pay for DNA testing to identify the body," I said.

"My friend had a contact who was willing to process the DNA for free. It was a good test of their database. We found out that John Doe is Solomon Olmer."

"How?" I asked.

"Joe told us Solomon was in possession of a letter from Johann Olmer dated in the late 1700's, and that he suspected Solomon was a descendant. The letter indicated that Johann was taken prisoner by George Washington's forces at the Battle of Trenton in 1776. This letter is not only historically significant, it tells us that Olmer was most likely Hessian. Many of the Hessians forced into service at that time were Jewish. This gave us a specific place to start our search.

"His DNA had traits similar to other DNA that had been mapped in the data base. This gave us some basic information. Solomon has a specific set of markers in his Y-chromosomes that are specific to Jews who share variations of the surname Cohen. This name is believed to be derived from Cohanim, and research is being done to try to prove, or disprove, that this genetic family lineage descends from Moses' brother, Aaron. Aaron's sons became the temple priests of the Old Testament. A lot of money is being spend on this DNA research. Samples have been provided from all around the world. Other markers helped pinpoint geographic drift.

"Biblical lineage?" Joe asked.

"For our purposes, his Biblical heritage is irrelevant. We are trying to identify modern remains. What the database tells us is that Solomon's family was most likely Jewish of German descent.

"This helped us narrow down areas of New England where Hessian Jews with the surname Olmer settled. Only about 5000 Hessian soldiers remained after the war. We didn't assume Solomon was a native to Trenton, because Joe said you found a hotel key. We figured he was from out of town."

"Oh, yeah. That makes sense," I agreed.

"Joe also suspected that Solomon Olmer may have been alive during the 1920's. The professor agreed that dental work supported that theory. Put together with the other clues, we were looking for a Caucasian Jewish male, well educated, left handed, five nine, thin, mid-forties, who probably lived in New England and went missing in Trenton between 1920 to mid-1940's.

"Are unsolved cases that old even in a database?" I asked.

"No. About a quarter of all bodies brought to a coroner's office go unidentified. That's about 1,000 per year, so multiply that by the number of years we're looking back to, and that's a staggering number of statistics."

"We decided to look for what was not there," Scooter said. "We contacted a local genealogist who helped us look at census data for men fitting this description that did not appear on the next census and did not have death certificates."

Dave added. "She found Solomon Olmer rather easily."

"Wow," I said, impressed.

"The 1920 census reports Solomon Olmer as a resident of Lancaster, Pennsylvania. He was an engineer, engaged in bridge building . He owned his home. He was not married, no descendents. No living relatives." Scooter beamed triumphantly.

Dave continued. "There are web-sites that genealogists subscribe to that allow them to search scans of old newspapers. Copies of World War I and II era newspapers are often scanned in their entirety. Computer software can make the scans searchable now, so it's fast. A search for the physical address of Solomon's home returned a legal notice in a January 1922 Pennsylvania newspaper. It was a notice of foreclosure by Solomon's debtors. Mortgages were uncommon in that day, so the debtors were probably business associates or employees or the IRS. So, we can make the assumption that Solomon died sometime in 1921."

Joe and I just looked at each other.

"Wow," I said.

"It gets even better. Check this out," Scooter said, sliding a piece of photo paper over to me. "His picture was included in a New York newspaper article about a bridge project being approved."

I looked down at a grainy sepia image of a man sitting behind a large desk with framed certificates on the wall behind him. The wall calendar dated the photo as 1918. The room had a very high ceiling. The wallpaper was elegant. Small, square shaped patterning dotted the carpet. There was a tall, vertical filing cabinet with various size drawers. The drawers of the bottom section were deeper and narrow, for drawings and plans. There were thick reference books on a long table against one wall. Light was pouring through the wall of windows on the other side, nearly floor to ceiling. A lamp hung from the ceiling on a thick cord. The phone on the wall had two bells and a crank.

I looked at Solomon's face. He looked older than 40, with a mustache and spectacles. He was wearing a suit. It looked natural on him, like he wore a suit every day. He held a cigar in his right hand, and the ash tray on the desk was on his right. This seemed odd to me at first. Then I realized his left hand was free, so that was actually a clue that he was indeed left handed. His dirty blonde hair was thinning, his hair line receding, and he was indeed willowy with long arms and legs. His spectacles didn't have ear pieces. They were perched on his nose, seeming to know better than to slip off. There was a glare on one lens, but the other eye appeared to be green or blue, not brown. He looked somewhat resigned. But then, people didn't smile for the camera back then. That was probably because they all had yellow teeth from smoking, I thought.

"I can do a pretty good likeness now." Scooter told Joe.

I looked to Joe.

"Scooter is going to put Solomon back together again," he said.

"I'll do a facial re-construction with putty," Scooter explained. "This way, it will be wonderful for business when your grandma opens the casket, which she has our blessing to do."

"So, Solomon is going to look like his old self again?" I asked, unable to believe what I was hearing. "And you want grandma...to be herself?"

"What do you think?" Scooter asked, looking a little deflated.

"I think that would be great."

Scooter smile returned.

"Do you want to see him first?" he asked.

I thought about it. Did I want to see the damage I had done to this man with my Jeep? Did I want to see the hand I had taken the coins from? Did I want to see the empty skull that once held enough mathematical equations to build bridges?

"No, probably not. I'll wait until you are done," I told Scooter.

"Joe?" Dave asked, offering him the same opportunity.

"Yeah. I would like to see the dental work you mentioned. You didn't see any evidence of foul play, then?"

"No, not clear evidence. What I also did not see was scavenging."

"Teeth marks from rats and other animals on the bones," Joe told me. I shuddered.

"What are you thinking?" Joe asked Dave.

"Stephanie unearthed the body with the Jeep. I'm thinking that drowning might be a likely scenario. If there were sufficient sediment to cover the body at the time of death, that would explain it."

"What, like a load of dirty water just flooded the tunnel without warning?" I asked. "Being a bridge builder, Solomon should have understood water better than anyone. Why would he be standing in that chamber if he were aware that there was risk of a flash flood?"

"They didn't exactly have flood warnings in the 1920's. A dam could have burst up-river and flooded the chamber without warning. It might not even have been raining in Trenton."

"Something happened to cover him with mud immediately after death," Dave repeated. "I can't see any other explanation for it."

An hour later, Joe and I were back in the Jeep, heading home.

"She is persistent," Joe said, jerking his thumb behind us. It was Joyce again. "My turn," he said. "Put your seat belt on."

Joe headed to the river, hitting the water at speed. He was a lot braver than I was about jumping the Jeep into the water from an embankment. I would probably go too slow and plow nose first into the bottom of the river. But Joe knew what he was doing. He switch gears and the Berkley jet drive roared to life. It felt like we were flying. I loved high speed on the water.

Joe pulled the tracker out of the lighter socket and tossed it onto the awning covering a party boat giving tours of the Hudson. "That should keep her busy for a while," Joe shouted, grinning.

"What about the other one?" I shouted back.

Joe powered down, and we sat rocking on the water.

"I threw it in the trash. It was picked up earlier today. After she lost us at the park, I'm thinking Joyce spent most of the day winding her way towards the Trenton Landfill."

I couldn't help grinning at him. "My hero."

Joe pulled me into his arms and kissed me. "Taking out the trash was on my side of the division of labor," he explained, kissing my neck.

"Enough trash talk," I said, kissing him back. "Let's go home."


	21. Judging Jack

"I think I could get used to living on Cupcake time," Joe whispered. Joe and I were lazing around in bed after a little afternoon romance.

"I set my own hours," I told him. "Now you can too."

I felt Joe smiling against my shoulder. "Sounds good."

"What time is it?" I wondered. I glanced up at the clock beside the bed. "Three-thirty," I groaned. "I should get up. Gina said your shirt would be ready for pick up today."

"I think I can handle one more day without my shirt," Joe groaned.

"We aren't making any money laying here," I reminded him.

"Picking up my shirt isn't going to help," He mumbled. "We can't get a look at the notebook until tomorrow."

"What if we don't find the treasure? What if we find the treasure, but we can't keep it?"

"I've been thinking about that too, but I haven't looked into it yet," he admitted.

"That is part of your job. It's a legal matter."

"Yeah. I know. But not now," he whispered. I could tell he was warming up for another round.

"We keep running into DeChooch," I mused. "Do you think he might have killed Judge O'Brien?"

"DeChooch is nuts," Joe said, rolling onto his back, reluctantly allowing his cop mode to kick in. He could tell my mind was back on the job, even if my body was still in the bed.

"The ladies at Clara's said the attorney appointed to defend DeChooch did a terrible job. They said he wasn't qualified."

"What's your theory?"

"I don't know. DeChooch was feeling lucky when he turned himself in. He had just escaped death and had his ear shot half off. I'm sure the optimism waned once he was back behind bars."

"I don't know why DeChooch would have thought he could expect parole," Joe said.

"Maybe just because he's so old, and it's hard to find anyone to testify against DeChooch."

"You think the attorney should have got him probation, but screwed it up somehow? And what would that have to do with the Judge?"

"I don't know. I just have a feeling it's all connected somehow." That, and I felt a little guilt for losing us the Stapleton gig. I needed to get us a new line on a payday.

"Go with your gut, Cupcake."

I swung my legs over the side and got up, slipping on a robe. I went to the kitchen for my bag. I dialed the last person in the world I wanted to owe a favor to.

"Dickie Orr," my ex-husband answered.

"It's Stephanie. Don't hang up," I said in a rush. "I just need some court information, and it's not something confidential you're not supposed to tell me. It's not about one of your clients."

"You know, you only call when you want something," Dickie said.

"Do you want me to call you more often?" I asked, being a smart ass.

"Good point," he said. "But I'm going to start billing you for services."

"No you're not," I said.

"Why not?"

"I don't have a good reason right now, but you know damn well I can think of one if I need to," I told him. It wasn't really a hollow threat either, and Dickie knew it.

"Okay, okay. Sheesh!" I could hear him get up from his chair and close his office door for privacy. "What do you want to know this time?" He was exasperated, but resigned. Right where I wanted him.

"What can you tell me about DeChooch's last court appearance? I know he was sentenced to some prison time by Judge O'Brien. But I heard there might have been something going on with his public defender. Pretend I don't know anything about the situation. What can you tell me?"

"You're looking for the Judge?" Dickie presumed.

"Yeah."

"And you think DeChooch is involved?"

"Yeah."

"Isn't DeChooch in jail?"

"Not anymore," I told him.

"Didn't know that."

"Should you be worried?" I asked.

"I don't think so. You're not going to tell him I helped you with this, are you? Because I don't want my name brought up if you bring him in again. If I keep helping you, I'll be on every hit list in town."

"Mums the word," I promised.

"Yeah, right."

"Are we going to do this the easy way, or the hard way?" I asked him, tapping my foot impatiently, hoping he could sense it on the other end.

"Don't get your panties in a twist," he told me.

I made an ugly face into the phone at him.

"Here's the story. DeChooch's case was assigned to a newbie fresh from his bar exam, Gordon Swissler. So, the first thing this guy does at the arraignment is argue to reduce the charges from indictable to non-indictable violations. Now, you know O'Brien is laughing is ass off inside. They just read this ridiculously long list of charges, and he's not about to let DeChooch go. So, he generously agrees to give the attorney everything he asked for, except bail. Swissler no sooner sits down, than O'Brien sets the date for sentencing. You should have seen DeChooch's face!" he laughed.

"So, what happened?" I asked. I wasn't laughing. I didn't get the joke.

"He got 179 days for each count. By the time they got to court, there were 13 charges. Now, being assigned this guy is referred to as getting the 'Swissler Stick'." I pressed my finger to the corner of my eye. Dickey's enjoyment of another's pain was giving me a familiar eye twitch.

"Wow. Well, that explains it. Thanks," I said, ready to end the call as soon as possible.

"Remember, you didn't hear it from me."

"You bet." I disconnected. He was right. I didn't hear anything he said aside from the fact that DeChooch's lawyer was an idiot and O'Brien sentenced him to a lot of jail time.

I dialed the other attorney in my life, my brother-in-law, Albert Kloughn. Albert married my sister, Valerie. It was her second marriage and his first. Albert was step-dad to my nieces, Angie and Mary Alice. He was father to baby Lisa.

I really liked Albert. He reminded me of the Pillsbury Dough Boy. But, that jolly, squishy quality didn't make for the best lawyerly exterior. If I were ever on trial for murder, I'd need a third lawyer in my life.

"Stephanie," Albert answered, chipper as ever. "It's so good to hear from you! How's the married life?"

"Great," I said. "Actually, Joe and I are looking in to the disappearance of Judge O'Brien. It seems Eddie DeChooch broke out of prison just before O'Brien went missing. I heard some gossip that maybe DeChooch's attorney screwed up in court, but I'm not getting the whole story. Did you happen to hear anything?"

Albert was making a nervous sort of laugh. "Wow, I think everyone heard about that. And they think I'm a sorry excuse for an attorney," he laughed self-consciously.

"You're a wonderful provider for your family, Albert," I told him.

"Yes, but I'm not a very good attorney," he admitted. "Still, this guy takes the cake."

"Can you tell me in plain English what happened?"

"Sure. DeChooch was assigned a public defender. He literally just passed the bar like the day before. DeChooch was charged with 13 indictable offenses. Those are serious charges that usually carry jail time and stay on your criminal record.

"The new guy, Swissler, asked for the charges to be reduced to less serious charges, like disorderly conduct. Those charges usually carry minimal jail time. Sometimes they don't even go on the permanent criminal record. Sometimes there's just a fine. They're just like getting a parking ticket."

"That sounds like a good thing," I said. "Why was that stupid?"

"It was stupid because DeChooch expected to have the charges dropped because he's an old man. And sometimes an elderly defendant is found not guilty merely because a jury doesn't have the heart to send grandpa to the pokey," Albert explained. "A jury trial would have been the best way to go to get DeChooch cleared of all charges. The thing is, a defendant is only entitled to a trial by jury for indictable offenses. Since the charges were reduced, DeChooch lost his right to a jury trial. And thus, his only chance to be found not guilty."

"Oh!" I gasped, catching up. "So the judge realized what kind of mistake the rookie was making, but he let him make it anyway. He humiliated the kid and he sentenced DeChooch."

"Yeah," Albert agreed. "And if DeChooch is out, I'll bet that public defender is dead or missing too."

"Ok, so, what did you hear DeChooch got sentenced to?"

"Usually, a non-indictable offense carries a sentence of less than six months, which is 180 days. Judge O'Brien gave DeChooch 179 days for each count. So, times 13 counts, it came to just under six and a half years."

"Woah!" I said, shocked. "No wonder DeChooch is out for blood. He doesn't take disappointment well. At his age, that was life in prison."

"Or a death sentence," Albert suggested.

"That's what I needed. Thanks. Say hi to Valerie and the girls for me."

"I will. Be careful!" Albert said, and he disconnected.

I ran back into the bedroom, hopped on the bed, and told Joe what I found out about DeChooch and O'Brien.

"Surely Swissler is in police protective custody by now," Joe said, getting up and looking around for his clothes.

"One way to find out. Call the Chief."

Joe made the call. He was giving me the oddest look while he listened. Then, he thanked the Chief and disconnected.

"Swissler isn't missing. He was ruined by the public humiliation following the DeChooch thing. And it happened right after being stressed out over the bar exam. Turns out, no one has seen him lately because he had a nervous breakdown after losing his fifth straight case. When they found out that DeChooch escaped, Swissler was the first person the Chief thought of. So, Swissler was transferred to an out-of-state facility. The location has not been disclosed. Swissler is safe. And he's eating solid food again, so that's good, I guess."

"Are his lawyering days over?" I asked.

"Sounds like it. He can probably do some kinds of research or related law work, but I doubt he'll ever be back in a court room."

"That's a shame," I said, feeling sorry for the guy. I was all too familiar with public humiliation. I'd made the front page a few times myself.

"The Chief contacted O'Brien to let him know DeChooch escaped. It's not uncommon for a judge to be threatened, so he just assumed O'Brien would take precautions. He was surprised when O'Brien vanished without a trace. He doesn't know if he's dead or just laying low somewhere until DeChooch is caught."

"We should have a talk with Mrs. O'Brien," I decided.

"Yeah. I'll bring a contract," he said. He was digging around on his desk. He could feel my eyes on him. "What?" he asked without looking up at me.

"You're serious," I realized.

"Hey, if you're going to keep bumping into DeChooch, we ought to get paid."

We jumped in the Camaro and drove to Hamilton Township to the O'Brien house.

"Do you usually show up unannounced?" Joe asked.

"Yeah, it saves time. I mean, no one wants to meet with a BEA. And this way, Mrs. O'Brien doesn't have time to think of a reason not to give us the contract."

"You mean she won't have time to check our lack of references."

"That too."

We walked up to the door and knocked. A plump woman of about fifty answered the door. Her navy blue and white floral wrap dress was hiding a bountiful figure, and her white hair was swept up in a bun on top of her head. The only wrinkles she had were laugh lines. She looked both young and old at the same time. My first thought was Aunt Bea, and even their house was a little Mayberry.

"Mrs. O'Brien. My name is Joe Morelli, and this is my wife, Stephanie," Joe said, holding out his hand as he introduced us. "We are private investigators. We would like to offer our services."

"Oh, my," she said, gingerly offering her hand to Joe and then to me. "Come in, won't you?"

We followed her inside. We were seated on a large, overstuffed couch in the living room. Mrs. O'Brien sat in a wing-chair to my left.

"Jack has been missing over a week," she told us. "I have no idea where he is."

"We heard what happened with the DeChooch case. Mrs. O'Brien, I am a retired Trenton police detective. I worked my way up from patrolman, through vice. I have seen a lot of things. Stephanie is a retired Bond Enforcement Agent, and it's possible she's seen more action that I have. We are capable and qualified to conduct an investigation into your husband's disappearance. The Trenton PD is undermanned and under-funded. I know they want to help you, but it isn't possible for them to expend the resources necessary to locate your husband. Stephanie and I are capable and willing, but we have to earn a living, you understand."

Mrs. O'Brien nodded. "I understand. What are your fees?"

I stood, allowing Joe to trade places with me. Joe reviewed the contract while I studied the room.

The room was tidy and bright, with warm light pouring through the large bay window. It didn't look like the little missus was in mourning or worried to distraction. And I didn't see any sign of overcompensation. Everything seemed peaceful and normal. I assumed Mr. O'Brien spent very little time in his own home. That would account for the sense that all was well. His absence was normal.

"Very well," Mrs. O'Brien said. "Will you accept a check?"

"We would," Joe agreed. Mrs. O'Brien signed the contract along with Joe. Joe gave Mrs. O'Brien the yellow copy of the contract. He folded and pocketed the white copy along with the check she handed him.

"Can I offer you some tea?" she asked. "I assume we have a lot of talking to do now."

"Yes, tea would be wonderful," I said.

Mrs. O'Brien nodded, and she tottled off to the kitchen.

"How much?" I whispered to Joe.

"Three thousand dollar deposit to cover expenses. Another seven thousand once we have located and returned her husband."

"Ten thousand?" I asked.

"Five after the metal detector," he said. "Not much after bills are paid."

"Close enough," I told him.

"I wasn't trying to gouge her. I'm just trying to keep us in business. And she can afford it," he said. "She agreed. It's not like stealing to make a deal. Besides, we're not the only game in town."

"Why hasn't anyone else been knocking on her door then?" I wondered. "You don't think she hired all of us do you? Like the Stapleton's?"

"Don't know," he admitted.

Mrs. O'Brien returned with a silver tea tray set with China. I involuntarily glanced down at the rug. It appeared to be StainMaster rather than Sotheby's, so I relaxed a little. I caught Joe smiling at me.

"Are you newlyweds?" Mrs. O'Brien asked.

"Yes," I blushed.

"It shows," she said, smiling at us. "You look good together. Such a handsome couple, and so in love."

"Like you and Jack?" I asked. I couldn't help myself. My spidey sense spotted an opportunity, so I took it.

Joe's expression didn't give anything away.

"There was a time," she said wistfully. "But that was a long time ago."

"You aren't happily married?" I asked sympathetically.

"I would say we are settled into a comfortable rut," she told us.

Joe decided to change the subject before I accused our only benefactor of adultery with the neighbor.

"Do you recall your husband receiving any threats?"

"No. He received a call from the Chief when DeChooch escaped, but that was all."

"How did he react to that call," Joe asked.

"Well, he didn't run and pack a bag, if that's what you're asking. He has a loaded gun in the night stand in his room. It's still there."

"You don't share the same bedroom?" I asked, not entirely surprised.

"No. Jack keeps long hours, and he doesn't want to wake me when he retires."

"Are any of this clothes missing?"

"No. He didn't take anything."

"Would you mind if we had a look around?" I asked.

"Of course. Follow me."

The house was a single story ranch. We followed her all the way down the hallway.

"This is Jack's room."

It was the master bedroom, with a private bath. The large bed was neatly made. The room was masculine in decor. There were no frilly feminine touches. All of the toiletries belonged to the Judge. I opened the closet door. The shoe rack had only one pair missing, and there was only one empty hanger.

"What was the Judge wearing when he disappeared?" I asked.

"His dark brown suit, and brown dress shoes," she said. "I picked up his laundry from the cleaners the other day. I didn't know what else to do, so I hung up the suits and put his other things in his drawers. I hope I didn't mess anything up for your investigation."

"No, that's fine," I assured her. "What dry cleaner do you use?" Just curious.

"Kan Kleen," she said.

"The Macaroni's do good work," I told her.

"Yes, except this last time." She opened one of the dresser drawers and pulled out a pair of silk boxer briefs that had been absolutely ruined. It looked like they had been pressed for too long at high heat. They were discolored, shapeless, and very shiny. "And the suits," she said, pulling out a dark blue pinstripe and a black tailored suit. I looked at them, not seeing the disaster. Then she pulled out another suit for comparison. The first two suits had obviously shrunk. "I didn't complain yet. If Jack doesn't make it back, there's no point worrying about it. And if he does, I'll just let him handle it."

I nodded, not sure what to say.

We returned to the living room.

"I assume Mr. O'Brien didn't make any large withdrawals that you are aware of," Joe said.

"No. But, it's quite possible he has access to funds I don't know about. He takes care of all the money. I have my own account, and I get an allowance."

"Are there people he would go to for help? Family, friends?" I asked.

"Not really. I've called all of his family members. I don't think they are hiding him. Do you want to try to contact them again?" she asked.

"Yes. If you could make us a list, any contacts you can think of would be helpful."

"I have that list all ready," she said. She went to the kitchen and returned with a photo copy of a hand-written list of names, relationships, and phone numbers.

"I'm sorry to ask, but have you hired any other investigators?"

"No, I haven't."

"I was just curious," I said.

"About the list? I gave it to the police last week."

"That's very helpful," Joe assured her. "Just a few more questions."

She nodded.

"Can you describe the last contact you had with your husband?" Joe asked.

"I heard him getting ready for work. It was Tuesday morning. The Chief had called the night before. I didn't get up. Jack usually leaves before I get up. So, everything was normal."

"You heard him getting ready. What did you hear?" Joe asked.

"The shower came on at five thirty, the usual time. The national news was on in his room, on the television. He got into his closet. The television went off and he walked down the hall, out the front door, and he drove away."

"But, you didn't actually see him?" Joe asked.

"No, but it was Jack. Nothing was different about his morning routine. I could smell his after shave when I got up to make coffee."

"He didn't make it to work that morning?"

"No."

"He didn't have any breakfast or coffee before he left?"

"No. He has a Starbucks' habit. He gets a fancy coffee and a Danish every morning on the way to work."

"Did the police determine if he had been seen at Starbucks that morning?" Joe asked.

"They talked to the barista that always waits on him. She had noticed that he didn't come in that morning. He's always there by six."

"So, he went missing between five thirty and six last Tuesday," I confirmed.

"Yes."

"And his car is also missing?"

"Yes. It's a black Dodge Charger. The plate number is on the bottom of the page." She pointed it out to Joe.

"Did your husband ever talk about going someplace, like a fantasy spot?" Joe asked.

"You mean, if he won the lottery?"

"Exactly."

"He joked about Barbados sometimes. But it's not like he ever brought home travel brochures. He was married to his work. I can't imagine him taking a few days off, let alone, dropping everything and going on an exotic vacation." She looked thoughtful for a moment. "But...is there such a place as Micronesia?"

"What do you mean?" Joe asked.

"Whenever Jack presided over a case where the thief was caught, but the money wasn't found, Jack used to comment that the money was in Micronesia."

"Huh. I'll look into it." Joe said, jotting it down on the list.

"That's all I've got. Steph?" He turned to me.

"I'm sure we'll have a few more questions as the investigation unfolds," I said. "We'll keep in touch and let you know how things are progressing."

"Thank you," she said, seeing us to the door.

Joe and I got in the car, and stared at each other in stunned silence for a minute.

"She isn't the least bit concerned that her husband might be dead," I said.

"Micronesia is a non-extradition country. It's made up of thousands of tiny islands north of Australia. English is the official language. And I'll bet the Judge already had money in an account there."

"Do you think he's hiding from DeChooch in Micronesia? Or from the wife?" I wondered.

"I'm not ruling out the wife's boyfriend, either."

"If O'Brien fled to the Pacific, how are we supposed to bring him back?"

"I don't know, Cupcake."

"I think I miss the good old days when I was chasing down drunks and perverts," I said wistfully.

"Yeah. A straight forward ventilation job down on Comstock was a lot less complicated."

"Let's go get your shirt. I want to talk to Gina Macaroni about her new hire."

We rolled up to Kan Kleen. I ran in while Joe waited in the car.

The front was unattended again. "Knock, knock!" I called out. "Gina, are you back there?"

A wispy teenager with a short, dark pixie cut came bounding up to the counter. She was wearing all black. Black nails, black lips, black eye makeup. She looked like Tinkerbell's evil twin.

"Gina stepped out for a minute," She said.

"Oh, well, maybe you can help me. I dropped off a shirt, and Gina said I could pick it up today." I handed her my ticket.

She looked at me with a blank expression.

"Can you find my shirt so I can pay you for it? My husband is waiting in the car, so I need to hurry."

"Oh," she looked out the window at Joe. "He's pretty hot."

"Yeah," I said, a warning in my voice. She pulled back from her drooling and looked at me. "The shirt. Can you find the shirt?"

"I just started working here the other day. I haven't learned customer service yet," she said, handing me back my ticket.

"I used to work here," I told her. "Would it be okay if I come back there and get the shirt?"

"Sure," she said, stepping back, allowing me access to the moving rack. I hit the button, and the clothes danced past like a parade. I scanned the numbers on the tickets until I found Joe's shirt. I let go of the button, and the rack stopped. I knew immediately that something was wrong when I could see the ends of the hangar sticking out through the shirt sleeves.

I removed the plastic and I held the shirt out to the girl. "Does this shirt look familiar to you?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah," she said. "It's a cute shirt. Your little boy must kill in that shirt."

"My big boy is going to kill when he sees this shirt," I told her. "This was my husband's favorite shirt. And you shrunk it to about one quarter it's normal size. How did you even do that?"

"I don't know. Gina's been trying to help me learn how to work the machines. She thinks I'm not mixing the chemicals correctly. And I like everything neatly pressed, but I guess not everything is supposed to be put in the press. And it doesn't have a timer, so I don't know when it's done," she droned on.

I ignored her. I went to the register and wrote a note for Gina to call me.

"Gina can call me when she gets in. I'll come back later to take care of the shirt with her," I said to the pixie.

"Yeah, that would be best," she agreed.

As I stormed out the door, I could hear her calling after me.

"Oh, thanks for using Kan Kleen. Come again!"

I slammed the car door shut and handed Joe what was left of his shirt.

"New girl," I told him.

"Figures," he said, tossing the shirt over his shoulder into the back seat.

"Are you mad?" I asked.

"No, I'm not mad. Bob will look great in that shirt."

"It's too small for Bob."

"Maybe Rex will like it," he teased. Rex is my pet hamster.

"I'm really sorry," I told him.

He took my hand and kissed it. "It's not your fault, Cupcake." This got a smile out of me.


	22. The Other Books

Joe and I didn't sleep in Friday morning. We were up with the sun, thinking about what we might find in Solomon's notebook.

Joe made coffee while I walked Bob. When I got back, Joe was logging everything we knew about Solomon Olmer into a case file.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" I asked. "It might be deemed admissible evidence at our trial," I teased. Okay, not entirely teasing.

"That's why I'm doing it," he told me. "I don't want to be so tempted by what we find down there that I forget we're the good guys." He smiled up at me. "There's nothing I want more than for you to be able to respect me." He twisted his wedding ring on his finger absentmindedly. "I know that sounds like a corny line, but I mean it. If it will change us, I don't want it."

"You're a good man, Joe," I told him while, at the same time, Scrooge was having a rant in my head. I tried to squelch him. "But, I wouldn't mind keeping the gold."

Joe smiled. "You say that, but I think you love the treasure hunt more than the actual treasure. I know you. When it's over, you won't be satisfied. All you will want is another adventure."

I shrugged. "Yeah, a well funded adventure. It would be nice to have options. That's all I'm saying."

"You just want to fill the bath tub with loot and jump in," he grinned. I knew he was thinking "naked", but he didn't say it. "I've

got news for you Cupcake. It would probably feel like a bunch of cold, hard coins pinching your butt, and it would be a lot less fun than a shower with me."

I believed him.

"So, what do we have?" I asked him, pointing to his case file.

"We have a Jewish bridge designer dead in a smuggler's tunnel. So, if we believe the banker had mob connections, it begs the question. Was Solomon working for the mob? Was he responsible for designing the tunnel? And if so, did he approach the banker or did they approach him?"

"It hardly seems likely that gangsters and a banker just happened to hire a guy whose great-great-great-great grandfather buried treasure on the same spot," I said.

"Yeah. He had probably been searching the river banks for years. He had to know or suspect where the treasure was. But something was preventing him from taking it. Prohibition was the catalyst. It offered Solomon the opportunity he had been waiting for. He approached these guys, offering to design a tunnel for them to use to smuggle prohibition booze up from the river to the estate."

"Sure. He got the banker to pay him to dig up his own treasure," I realized. "That was really smart."

"But something went wrong," Joe pointed out.

"If he got caught, the bad guys would have taken the treasure. But, Solomon covered it with concrete. Why did he do that?"

"Something you said earlier seemed right on. Solomon seems to have caused the older tunnel to appear to be flooded, even at low tide. He was waiting for the right time. He knew the gold would be heavy. He got the rail system all the way down to the treasure, and then he created the excuse to divert the tunnel to the river closer to the estate, so no one else would have an excuse to be down there when he brought up the treasure."

"Do you really think he just happened to be down there and the tunnel flooded?" I asked.

"You don't," he said.

"No. I don't." I didn't have a good reason for it. I just didn't want to think some fluke of nature was responsible. He had been so driven to recover his inheritance. It just didn't feel right.

"So, how did he force the tunnel to flood?" I wondered.

"I'm hoping the notebook will shed some light on that, but I suspect it has something to do with the brick retaining wall and the weeping willows along the river bank. He probably sold it as an elegant touch at the time. Hidden at high tide, and appearing to be preventing erosion at low tide. It would be hard to spot that entrance unless you knew where to look."

"You think he planted the trees?" I asked.

"Yeah, I didn't see any other trees like that around. They are too perfectly positioned to hide the entrance you found."

"Do you think he filled a dead tree full of cannonballs?" I asked.

"I've been thinking about that," Joe said. "I suspect it came from Johann's ship. They had to hide the ship, or sink it. Remember, they stole it. They couldn't just waltz into camp in Trenton and then mozey on back to the boat whenever they wanted. They were soldiers, sold in service to the British army. They could have pretended to have escaped capture and returned to the camp. But they wouldn't have been allowed to leave again on their own. They weren't free men."

"I hadn't thought of that," I admitted.

"They probably used the wood on the pit or tunnel, whatever it was. And then the metal they might have a use for later was stashed in the dead tree trunk."

"What would they use it for?" I asked.

"Metal had value. You didn't just run down to the hardware store for nails. You had to have a black smith make them for you. And that took iron. They could probably sell the metal to a smith. They could have built their own forge. Who knows. I can see why they might not have wanted to bury it, though."

"Was it all rusted and gross?" I asked.

"Some of the balls were rusted blobs, some were just weathered...probably lead. And some were stone."

"Stone?"

"Round rocks. They were cheaper than metal, and used for practice. They could do a lot of damage too," he said with a shrug.

"How big was this ship they stole?" I wondered.

"They sailed past Florida from the sounds of it. I assume it was sea-worthy. It would have had a mast and sails. It wasn't a speed boat."

"But six men could sail it along," I added.

"Could still be a big boat," he said.

"But they sailed it up river. How big could it have been?"

"They might have had to wait until the tide was high enough."

"I'm starting to think engineering may have been in Solomon's blood," I said, leaning back in my chair, mentally drained.

We dropped Bob off at doggie daycare and were waiting for Mira when she arrived.

"How are Trenton's favorite PI's doing this morning?" she asked, unlocking the door and letting us in.

"Good, thanks."

"You ready to have a look at the notebook?" she asked.

I was almost dancing on the spot in anticipation. Joe put his hand on my shoulder to steady me.

"If it's not too much trouble," Joe said.

"Sure, I'll just get it, and we'll see if we can separate any of the pages today."

Mira put on a fresh pair of latex gloves and took a tray to the desiccant air machine. She pushed a few buttons, unlocked the door, and reached in for the little book. She placed it gently on the tray, closed the door to the machine, and turned it back on. There must have been other goodies drying inside.

She returned to the counter, and I watched with baited breath as she gently pulled back the front cover. The pages fanned a bit at the edges. She took a long flat instrument, like a silver tongue depressor, and gently worked the book open.

"Well, let's have a look, shall we?"

We leaned over, and saw chicken scratches.

"Pencil, not ink. That's excellent news," Mira said. "Pencil doesn't run. It smudges, but it can usually be made legible."

She peeled back another page.

"Would you mind if I took photos of the pages, so we can study them while the book remains here in the dryer?" Joe asked.

"That's an excellent idea," Mira said. She turned the book to face Joe, and page by page, Joe recorded the images.

Mira wasn't nosey. I tried to read the pages, but Mira was just concerned with moisture content and the performance of her desiccant air machine. She had probably been handling people's personal possessions, including diaries, for so long, it didn't interest her anymore. She seemed immune to the curiosity that would have driven me crazy.

When all of the pages with content had been recorded, Joe checked his photo count. Thirty two pages.

We thanked Mira profusely. She promised to call once she deemed the book to be restored, in a week to ten days.

We got in the car and examined the photos, enlarging the print. There were clearly numbers and letters, a few sketches that seemed to illustrate mathematical problems, and ratios. Lots and lots of ratios. Some were repeated over and over, like 11:1 and 8:11.

"If I were taking a guess, I would say he was trying to build a model of something, like he's scaling something up or down." Joe scrolled through a few more images. "Some of this is not English. And it's not German that I can tell. Hebrew written in English letters, maybe. These are English letters, not Hebrew."

"Some of that is English," I said. "I see a whole line of comparisons here."

"It's a mystery to me," Joe groaned. "I knew it wouldn't be as easy as, 'x marks the spot, dig here'."

"We should bring Mr. Kleinschmidt up to speed. We promised to let him help, and he's really good with puzzles."

"These aren't crosswords."

"They're words, and somehow, I'll bet he can make them fit. He learns all kinds of crazy things by doing crosswords. Believe me, you do not want to play Scrabble with that man," I warned him. "He took Dillon for $100 one weekend."

"I've met Dillon. He wouldn't stand a chance against Mrs. Bestler."

"Hey, be nice. He's cleaned up after me more times than I can count."

"I know." Joe turned the motor over.

Ten minutes later, I knocked on the door of apartment 315. Then we waited, and waited, and waited. Finally, Mr. Kleinschmidt appeared in the door.

"I thought you forgot about an old man," Mr. Kleinschmidt teased, shuffling back until we could come inside.

We took our places on the couch and Joe brought him up to speed with Solomon Olmer's identification and our suspicions about his unfortunate demise.

"We have pictures of the notebook," Joe told him.

"Hang on," he said. "I got one of those fancy electronic laptop computers for Christmas. Can you put the pictures on it? I can't see that dinky phone of yours."

Joe e-mailed the photos to himself, and then downloaded the photos to the laptop.

"I'll never catch up to the modern world," Mr. Kleinschmidt mumbled to himself.

"Sure you will. You bought a lap top, didn't you?" I encouraged him.

"I had to. My doctor wants updates e-mailed to him by my housekeeper. And they got some gizmo that they use to take my blood pressure and it sends him a file. Crazy stuff."

"Sounds pretty cool. Saves you a doctor visit."

"Yeah, I don't need to catch my death sitting in an office full of sick people," he agreed.

"OK, here are the photos," Joe said, turning the screen towards Mr. Kleinschmidt.

He put his glasses back on. "Well, now." He studied the pages, scrolling back and forth through them for a few minutes.

"Do you recognize the language?" I asked.

"Looks like...some of it is English. Some is Hebrew. No surprise there. Most of these are references. Book references. Etymology. Most of this is a study of etymology."

"Insects?" I asked. I hated spiders. I didn't sleep for a week after seeing Arachnophobia. "Why is he studying insects?" I looked to Joe, but he just shrugged.

"Not insects," Mr. Kleinschmidt laughed. "That's entomology, with an 'n'. This is etymology, the study of words. He's researching the origin and possible meanings of certain words, and he's looking at various translations of what appear to be religious texts. Oh, here we go. This is about Solomon. Not your Solomon, old King Solomon."

"From the Bible?" I asked.

"Well, technically, from Jewish writings. Scribes recorded events in the kingdom. This book," he said, pointing to a paragraph on one photo, "is called Sepher M'lakhim. This book was translated and canonized into the Catholic and Protestant Bible as First and Second Kings. It records the deeds of the kings of Judah and Israel. So, a Jew would know this book. This reference," he pointed to another page," is from a book called Maccabees. It is not a book the Jews accept or keep in their cannon, but the Catholics kept it. The Protestants did not. And there are numerous opinions from rabbis and biblical scholars. It looks like he was writing a book, or a research paper."

"What was he studying, exactly?" Joe asked.

"Go get that big book titled Tanakh off the shelf over there, and I'll show you," Mr. Kleinschmidt told him.

Joe brought Mr. Kleinschmidt the book.

"Nevi'im, M'lakhim," he mumbled, flipping pages, finally settling on The Book of Kings. "We didn't split the book. There's just one Kings in here," he explained, searching for the right page. "Here," he pointed, handing the book back to Joe.

Joe sat beside me on the couch, and we read about Solomon's Temple.

"At first blush, the building of Solomon's Temple seems to be the point. But there is more here. He's repeating certain points over and over. For example, here, and here, he's copying down various translations of the Hebrew text that talks about King Solomon's first wife. She is only referred to as Pharaoh's daughter."

"Solomon's wife was Egyptian?" I asked, surprised. "We're talking, they pyramids along the Nile, Egypt?"

"Exactly. In fact, the Israelites were held captive as slaves in Egypt. They were forced to help build those pyramids for around 400 years."

"Then, why would a Jew marry an Egyptian?" I asked.

"First, they weren't called Jews yet. That's a different story. But, it does seem to be important to realize that the Israelites and the Egyptians have an interwoven history. Abraham's son, Ishmael, was half Egyptian. Joseph, with the coat of colors, became ruler of Egypt under a Pharaoh. Moses was raised by a Pharaoh. And Solomon married a Pharaoh's daughter. It is safe to say, Solomon had a reason for marrying into the Pharaoh's family, but it wasn't love."

"He wanted something," I realized. "What was it?"

"I don't know. But Olmer makes a good point. It appears, given the order of events listed in the text, that Solomon married her before God granted him wisdom."

"That wasn't smart," Joe scoffed, flipping back a few pages.

"Kind of the point of Mr. Olmer's speculation, I think."

"What do you mean God granted him wisdom?" I asked.

"It's a very long story, but the short version is, he was a young king. His father was David. You know the David and Goliath story, right?"

"Yes," I told him.

"Well, David was known for being a poet and a warrior, and he was favored by God. When he died an old man, his young son was only the third king of Israel. God visited the young man and asked what gift he would like to have. Solomon asked for wisdom to rule his people. He was famous for being the wisest, most knowledgeable man ever to live. God was so pleased with this request that he promised him riches and long life too. No man in history was ever as rich as Solomon. But, I'm not sure he used the wisdom part all that much."

"Why's that?" Joe asked.

"He had a thousand wives."

I gasped. "Seriously?"

"Yep." Mr. Kleinschmidt said seriously. "A lot of them were from foreign countries, and they made him prosperous, but they pretty well drove him mad. In the end, he was worshipping their idols and God tore the kingdom in two. God wasn't very pleased with Solomon in the end."

"I'll bet his wives weren't too pleased either," I mumbled.

"See, we don't need treasure," Joe whispered to me. "All I need is you."

I made a face at him since Mr. Kleinschmidt wasn't paying any attention. I still wanted the gold. I know, not very wise, but I couldn't help myself.

"He's made a curious observation here," Mr. Kleinschmidt mused. "I never noticed it myself, but every single time Pharaoh's daughter it mentioned, it is in relation to building something."

"Building what?" I asked.

"He points out that Solomon 'made affinity with Pharaoh' and took his daughter to live in Jerusalem until he finished building his own house, the Temple, and the wall around Jerusalem. It seems Solomon's wife wasn't to live in Jerusalem after the Temple was complete."

"That's a lot of building," Joe agreed.

"Surprisingly, he also built a house for his wife similar to his own. But the idea of building is what appears to be the clue here. The wording could be made to suggest he was building one thing hidden within another, several times, or on several building sites. Olmer seems to believe certain paragraphs of the narrative were phrased as a riddle."

"Like what?"

"How about this one. At the dedication for the Temple, Solomon gave a speech. He said, 'The Lord said that he would dwell in the thick darkness. I have surely built thee a house to dwell in, a settled place for thee to abide for ever.' The words being scrutinized here are taken from the original Hebrew. The word dwell was shakan, an established place to inhabit. Thick darkness was araphel, which could be more accurately translated as being on a lower level. The second time dwell is used, the Hebrew word is zebul, meaning on a higher level. Inhabit is the word makown, meaning a fixed place. And abide is yashab, and that could mean to set down, to tarry, to take, to return, or to remain."

"What does that translate to, according to Olmer?" Joe asked.

"'The Lord said he would establish a place to inhabit on a lower level, but I have surely built thee a house on a higher level, in a fixed place for thee to remain for ever."

"That's what I thought it said in the English," Joe said, looking unconvinced. "He's splitting hairs. What does any of this have to do with the treasure? Nothing?"

"Do you think Solomon Olmer was named after King Solomon?" I wondered.

"Not necessarily. Solomon is a common Jewish name. It's my name, too," he reminded me.

"Oh, yeah. I forgot. I'm so used to calling you Mr. Kleinschmidt," I told him. "I just figured his name had something to do with the mention of Solomon's wealth in the letter from Johann. He seems to be the heir to the inheritance."

"I think the mention in the letter has everything to do with it," Joe agreed. "But I just assumed it meant riches. Why is Olmer obsessed with the story?"

"Everything in this notebook has to do with the Temple construction. Moses lead the Israelites out of Egypt. Then he met with them in the Tabernacle, a big tent, while they wandered around in the desert. It was David that made Jerusalem the capital city and decided to build a permanent structure for God, a House of God, if you will. But God said David shouldn't build it. His son would build it. And he did. Before David died, Solomon was charged by David to build the Temple. It was going to be the permanent home of the Ark of the Covenant, the literal throne of God on earth, where his very presence would visibly rest."

"Woah! Hold it. Aren't we going a little Indiana Jones here?" Joe asked.

"Yes, very much so." Mr. Kleinschmidt confirmed. "Here is where Mr. Olmer has done some speculating. David was a prophet, meaning, God spoke directly to him. Just like God directed the construction of the Tabernacle, the tent, he very likely directed the construction of the Temple, including dimensions and materials to be used. And David would have revealed these plans from God to Solomon."

"So, Solomon already knew what he was supposed to do?"

"Yes, but it seems that he kept building other things before he completed the Temple. Which is odd considering that he and his father were so zealous to have it constructed that David was preparing materials for the construction long before he died."

"Maybe that's why he married all those women. To pay for construction," I guessed.

"No. God would have provided for his own temple. He didn't want Solomon to marry all those women."

"Then, what is this notebook all about?"

"It's about building something Solomon built. It's about a long term plan...and it does involve the Ark of the Covenant."

"Don't tell me for one second you think the Ark of the Covenant is in a hole in New Jersey," Joe barked. He was not amused at this point.

"No, not at all." Mr. Kleinschmidt assured him. "What is implied here is that God always meant for Solomon to hide the Ark. The 'low place in darkness' might have been related to God's instruction to David, and King Solomon gives us a clue in his speech. What I'm telling you is that it is possible that Mr. Olmer is descended from a Levitical priest involved in hiding the Ark. The secret may have been passed from father to son. Johann may have decided that if Solomon's clever scheme worked to hide the most sought after relic of all time, it would work to hide a tropical treasure in New Jersey."


	23. Boaz and Jachin

[Author's Note: You can find some of the reference material, including the visual working diagram, by going to YouTube and searching "The Great Secret of Solomon's Temple - Part 8 of 11 - By Michael Rood". Read the chapter first, or it will be a spoiler. If you have time, I recommend watching the entire series. Even if you disagree with the theology, you will learn a lot. Don't let Michael Rood's appearance fool you. He's not a court jester. He's dressed in historically traditional Israelite robes of the first century as a visual aid. He was a US Marine Sergeant, and for that, if for no other reason, he deserves our respect. Hope you enjoy!]

While Joe and Mr. Kleinschmidt took a break to toss back a single shot of whisky, I was scrolling through the photos of the notebook. Around page 20 there were some sketches and drawings with dimensions, and a lot of comparative measurements.

I was studying a column. It wasn't anything like the Corinthian columns at the Stacy-Trent. These were round, with a large topper on them, and they were in front of a building for decoration. They weren't supporting anything. They were labeled 'Boaz' and 'Jachin'. And those names had an etymology paragraph each.

"Who are Boaz and Jachin?" I asked. "Were they Bible characters?"

"Yes, and No," Mr. Kleinschmidt answered with a wry smile. "The story of Boaz is a romance. He's the hero of the Book of Ruth. He was Solomon's great-great-grandfather. Jachin was Israel's grandson. There was also a priest named Jachin alive during David's time. But it is the meaning behind the names that Olmer found to be significant.

"Boaz, according to his research, was used to mean strength or swiftness, fleet footed, quick. In the story of Ruth, Boaz quickly saved her from her troubles. He was a solid, well-established man. Strength could be made to be 'force'. And 'force', on the following pages, is represented by a fulcrum, with BJ on one end, representing Boaz and Jachin."

He turned a few pages to an image of a teeter totter, with one end closer to the high-center than the other. There were lines of mathematical equations below.

"Jachin means one who will establish. It is here being interpreted as having similar characteristics to Boaz. Both are strong and steady."

"What is this sketch about?" Joe asked, looking over the back of Mr. Kleinschmidt's armchair as I pulled up a foot rest to sit on, leaning over he arm of the chair.

The three of us were looking at that teeter totter, with BJ on the short end, and a large box on the other end. The teeter totter was even, the beam horizontal in equal balance.

"This is a fulcrum. We use it to lift heavy objects while using little force."

"Like a pile of gold," Joe said, catching on.

"Exactly. You would place the heavy object on the short end, and when you press down on the long end, it lifts much more easily than it would if the pivot point were in the center."

"So, something in the box is very heavy, and the Boaz and Jachin end is pushing with little force?" I asked.

"No, this set up is backwards. If BJ is being used to represent the force being exerted, it shows a very large force being used to lift a lighter object."

"That doesn't make very good sense," I argued.

"Unless you wanted to move that object a greater distance," Joe said.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You are assuming that the box end was sitting on the ground, level with the base of the pivot point. What if it were raised from well below the pivot point?"

"Using a heavy weight would raise the treasure," Mr. Kleinschmidt agreed. "Yes, indeedy, it would."

"Is that what all these calculations are about?" I asked. I hated math. I was glad to graduate in the top 98% of my class.

"No." Mr. Kleinschmidt turned to photo number 25. "These measurements are from the description of the twin pillars, Boaz and Jachin."

The measurements compared included:

Hebrew Cubit = 17.8 inches

Egyptian Cubit = 17.72 inches

Babylonian Cubit = 21.81 inches

British Cubit = 18.87 inches

Short Cubit = 6 hand breadths

Long Cubit = 7 hand breadths

1Ki 7:15 For he cast two pillars of brass, of eighteen cubits high apiece: and a line of twelve cubits did compass either of them about.

1Ki 7:16 And he made two chapiters of molten brass, to set upon the tops of the pillars: the height of the one chapiter was five cubits, and the height of the other chapiter was five cubits:

BJ = 18 cubits in height. (3x12=36 divided by 2) = 26.7feet

Circumference 12 cubits = 3.8 cubits diameter = 5.6 feet diameter

Chapiter = 5 cubits in height = 7.4 feet

Weight ..."neither was the weight of the brass found out."

1Ki 7:20 And the chapiters upon the two pillars had pomegranates also above, over against the belly which was by the network: and the pomegranates were two hundred in rows round about upon the other chapiter.

200 in rows = 2 cubits = 35.6 inches = THREE FEET

2Ki 25:17 The height of the one pillar was eighteen cubits, and the chapiter upon it was brass: and the height of the chapiter three cubits; and the wreathen work, and pomegranates upon the chapiter round about, all of brass: and like unto these had the second pillar with wreathen work.

"See, this is very interesting," Mr. Kleinschmidt pointed to the bold and excited handwriting that shouted "THREE FEET".

"The toppers were five cubits," Joe said, looking back in the Tanakh. "When the columns were built, the columns were 18 cubits and the toppers on top were five cubits. But here he's saying three cubits. He's lost two cubits of height. The columns remained the same. The toppers got shorter."

"How would you lose two or three feet of solid brass that was sitting, how high?"

"Using 17.8 inches as a cubit, they would be 26.7 feet high," Mr. Kleinschmidt announced after consulting his calculator to verify Olmer's calculations. "The tops were about seven and a half feet tall. Later they are only four and half feet tall."

"Wouldn't someone have noticed? How could you even steal that much solid brass? There was no way to get it down from there."

"Olmer was concerned about who made the pillars."

On the next photo Joe read, "And king Solomon sent and fetched Hiram out of Tyre. He was a widow's son of the tribe of Naphtali, and his father was a man of Tyre, a worker in brass: and he was filled with wisdom, and understanding, and cunning to work all works in brass. And he came to king Solomon, and wrought all his work."

"Was this King Hiram of Tyre?" Joe asked. "The same Hiram who sent all the Cedars from Lebanon?"

"It could be," he agreed. "But he didn't say King of Tyre."

"How would a King know how to work with Brass like a tradesman? Why would he even do it? Performing manual labor for another King? That can't be right." Joe wondered.

"David was a King. He was a shepherd before he was a warrior. He was the youngest son of a man from the least important tribe." Mr. Kleinschmidt laughed. "It would be an honor for even a king to build a Temple to God. Either way, God provided. Why are you surprised?"

"'Cunning work in brass'", Joe read slowly. "He was cunning because the brass columns weren't solid," Joe concluded. "The toppers were solid, but the column was hollow. The toppers sank down inside the column. That's where the three feet disappeared to. And that's why Solomon didn't order them to be weighed. He didn't want anyone to know they weren't solid brass."

"Holy cow!" I said. "But why?"

"It was part of this reverse lever system. A major part of constructing Solomon's Temple was building this...machine."

"But, the columns couldn't have sounded hollow. Someone would notice."

"They were probably filled with sand." Joe said.

"Sand. Like the desert. And the pyramids. Solomon learned this trick from Pharaoh. And he had to marry into the family to get the secret."

"Yep. That's what Olmer seemed to believe," Mr. Kleinschmidt agreed.

"But, what does the lever do?" I asked.

"The key is found in the when. When did the three feet disappear?" Mr. Kleinschmidt asked, knowing the answer.

Joe and I looked to the Tanakh again.

"During an enemy invasion." Joe answered.

"Yes. Four hundred years after Solomon, the Temple was ransacked when the Isralites were carried off to Babylon by King Nebuchadnezzar. The captain of the guard, Nebuzaradan, tore Jerusalem apart. He wasn't just looting. He was looking for..."

"The Ark of the Covenant," I gasped. "But where did it go? Just down in a pit?"

"Not according to this," Mr. Kleinschmidt answered in a delighted, sing-song voice. He turned a few more pages. "The reason Solomon kept building other projects without finishing the Temple wasn't because he was greedy for his own palaces. He was quarrying out a passage through the bedrock. A very long passage, beneath the temple, and leading away."

"Away to where?" I asked.

"Surely, to a place of God's choosing, if God created the plans."

"Wouldn't someone have found it? After all, this is the most sought after relic ever, right?"

"If God doesn't want it found, it's not going to be found. When he's ready, it will re-appear. That's what the Prophet Jeremiah was recorded as saying in Maccabees."

"How would Jeremiah even know about this passage, this lever?" Joe mused. "The temple priests passed it down?"

"After about five hundred years, it was probably forgotten. The scribe of Maccabees says that it was revealed in a vision."

"That's asking a lot. Visions. Plans from God," I said. "And after all this mathematical figuring, Olmer doesn't say where the Ark is?"

"No. He didn't know."

"What did he know?" Joe asked, purposefully bringing us back on track. "What did he know about Johann's treasure? He knew that a reverse fulcrum was used, and this was how Johann's treasure was going to be raised back up. But it was built so no one man could retrieve the treasure. How did they make sure of that?"

"If we assume the priests let the sand out at the bottom of the columns, and the weight of the brass and sand pressed down on the short end of a fulcrum, and the other end came up..." I thought out loud.

"We have to assume Johann set up the same situation on the estate. And we've already found one column."

"The big tree full of cannon balls?"

"Yes, of course!" Mr. Kleinschmidt laughed excitedly.

"But there's only one tree like that," I told him.

"So, he didn't follow the plan exactly. It was still a good plan. No one has disturbed the treasure."

"The base of that tree is down in the tunnel," Joe remembered. "It's got to be the same tree."

"How can it be? The base of the tree down below...can't be the same tree as above."

"They built the ground up around it. They dug out the pit, put in the fulcrum, covered it with the tunnel, and then covered it all with the mountain of dirt they had excavated. They built up the land, half burying the dead tree they filled full of cannon balls and metal and probably sand from the river bed," Joe explained.

So, if we let the sand out at the base of the tree somehow...we'll trigger the fulcrum below and the treasure will appear?"

"I think first we'll have to get the concrete out of the way," Joe said. "And we have a bear of a problem."

"Oh, yeah," I moaned. I forgot about the bear. "That reminds me. I left my crow out there."

"Big deal. I left my gun out there," Joe complained.

"You what?" Mr. Kleinschmidt laughed again.

"Glad you're finding this so amusing," Joe groaned.

"You left that part out," Mr. Kleinschmidt teased.

"Yeah. For all the good it did me."

"I wonder if Carl can help us figure something out," I said, dialing Grandma.

"Hey, what's cookin'?" Grandma answered.

"Joe and I were wondering if Carl would be up for helping us with a little something to deter a bear."

"That big bear that destroyed your father's cab?" Grandma wanted to know.

"That's the one."

"I don't know. I'll have to ask."

"Do that. And, just out of curiosity, what did Carl do before he became a Rogue Taxidermist?"

"Funny you should ask. He was just telling me the other day that he worked down at Disney World in Orlando. He was the maintenance supervisor for all those animatronics and special effects gizmos in The Magic Kingdom. He said he was good friends with the guys that did the fireworks, too."

"That explains a lot of things," I said.

"Yeah, doesn't it? Like how he knows about making things explode without really hurting anyone. And he's real good with making his creations look alive."

I had to stifle a grimace.

"So, what happened? Why did he leave a great job like that?"

"Well, he thought he would add a few touches to Snow White's Scary Adventures ride."

"He put some of his taxidermy in Snow White's forest?" I gasped.

"Yep. And I'll bet they were really good, too, but there were complaints. And, he got fired."

Yeah, a grown man placing dead animals in a children's theme park does have a certain creep factor, I thought.

"Wow, that's too bad. But, he's doing what he loves full time now, so that's something, right?"

"Right," Grandma said. "I'll let Carl know you called. He was just ecstatic to know his Bird's Eye View saved your lives. You dad thanked him face to face."

"I really do need to stop by to thank him, too" I told her. "Well, gotta go."

"OK, see you Sunday at mass," she said, hanging up before I could respond.

I looked at Joe. "We're going to mass on Sunday?" I asked.

Joe looked surprised. "We are?"

"Grandma just said she'd see us Sunday at mass."

"My mother's been talking to your mother," he assumed. "She wanted us to go when I saw her the other day. I told her maybe."

"Well, nobody talked to me," I whined.

"What, you don't want to go to Church to worship God, young lady?" Mr. Kleinschmidt snapped. "What's wrong with you?"

"It's a long list," I assured him.

"Like what?" Joe asked, seriously. "We're married now. What else is on your list?"

"Don't you want to know what Carl Coglin did for a living before he came here?" I asked, trying to change the subject.

"Sure, lay it on us," Mr. Kleinschmidt relented.

So I told them.

"That does explain a lot of things," Joe agreed.

"Yeah, and we'd better go talk to him before he and Grandma blow up the bear and her family."

"No kidding," Joe agreed.

"I can keep the photos, right?" Mr. Kleinschmidt asked hopefully.

"Sure," I told him.

We showed ourselves out, and headed for the elevator. We got in and pressed the button for the Lobby. I was surprised when the elevator stopped on two and I found myself face to face with the pixie girl.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"I live here. What are you going here?" she asked.

"Visiting," I said lamely. "What apartment?"

"Um, 215," she said.

I nearly fainted. The pixie was living in my apartment.


	24. Laundry 101

Joe and I stepped back to allow the pixie girl to enter the elevator. She was in all black again today, with a smattering of red peeking through. For a second, I realized she may be a little older than she first appeared. She was about twenty, I guessed. And she looked a little less carefree than before.

"Lobby," she said, making no attempt to press the button herself, or even to look to see that it was already lit.

Joe gave me a quizzical look, and I shrugged at him. Other than Dillon, I had been the only non-senior citizen living in the building. He didn't seem to recognize her from Kan Kleen. Maybe he hadn't seen her very clearly through the window. If he did recognize her as the incompetent boob that had ruined his favorite shirt, he wasn't letting on.

"Do I look like Mrs. Bestler?" I asked the girl, giving her a full dose of Jersey attitude.

"Who?" she asked. Joe and I exchanged looks again. This time, concerned. Where was Mrs. Bestler?

I was shocked yet again when the elevator door opened to the Lobby. Dillon Ruddick, the building super, was apparently waiting for her. She trotted right over to him. I could feel my mouth hanging open.

"Hey, Steph," Dillon greeted me with a waive. "Joe. How's it going? I didn't expect to see you guys back here anytime soon."

"Hey," I answered back, closing my mouth and trying to smile. "We received some reports that security was getting lax in this building, and it seems the reports were right. Apparently, you'll let anyone in here," I said, indicating my extreme dislike for the girl. My claws were showing, a side of my personality Dillon had rarely seen.

"I had to rent out the apartment, Steph. You know this." He looked apologetic, but took an unexpectedly defensive position, stepping between me and little miss pixie. "How do you know Winnie?" he asked.

"She ruined Joe's favorite shirt when I dropped it off at Kan Kleen," I told him.

He didn't look surprised. "Winnie's not working there anymore, and I'm sure Gina will replace the shirt. If you'll excuse us, I'm taking Winnie over to Cranberry Manor. My aunt works in housekeeping. She's going to let Winnie help out since she has some work experience in laundry now."

"Good luck," I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster.

"She won't be mixing chemicals or using a press anymore. She'll just be tossing sheets and blankets in the washer and dryer. I just gave her a quick lesson in the laundry room. She'll do just fine," he said, more for her benefit than mine. Winnie flashed him a grateful smile.

Before they could make their exit, Tank and Ranger pulled into the parking lot. Dillon didn't look happy to see them.

"Now that I think about it, maybe we should make sure you know how to use the dryers too," he said, taking his pupil gently by the arm. She followed his lead. They dashed down the stairs, not taking the elevator.

Joe and I exchanged glances again.

"Did you see her boots? Joe asked.

I shook my head 'no'. "Expensive?" I guessed.

"Not Maggie Stapleton expensive, but they weren't from Wal-Mart." I thought back, trying to focus on her black apparel. Black skirt, flash of knees, mid-calf lace up boots with a zipper in the front along the laces, evoking the thought of military boots. Goth GI Jane boots with a stacked heel. Marc Jacobs, about $300, I thought. That would be slumming it, for someone of Maggie's crowd.

"You think it's her?" I asked in a whisper, as Ranger entered the lobby, followed by Tank.

"Yeah," he whispered back.

Joe's breath on my ear gave me a shiver down my spine. I caught a small smile playing at the corner of Ranger's mouth. He'd noticed the shiver, and probably mistook the reason. I glared at him, and the smile widened.

"Homesick?" Ranger asked.

"Visiting," I told him. "What about you?"

"Visiting," he said. We both knew what Ranger was doing here. He was on the scent of Maggie Stapleton.

"Who are you visiting?" I asked.

"Your friend, Dillon," he said, heading for the stairs. Tank stayed in the lobby, watching the elevator doors.

Joe and I followed Ranger down the stairs. He walked straight to the laundry room, where laughing voices could be heard.

We rounded the doorway to find that Dillon was indeed giving Winnie a lesson in laundry 101. However, it appeared she had used too much soap. There was a lava-like flow of white foam spewing from one of the building's coin operated washing machines. Dillon and the pixie were covered with suds, and soaked to the skin. Dillon's white t-shirt was virtually gelatinous, revealing his hairy chest and flat belly. Thankfully, he had an unbuttoned flannel shirt over it. They were slipping and holding on to each other, trying not to fall down again, laughing uncontrollably. And what's more, they were obviously in love.

Ranger stood, hands on hips, taking in the scene. I stopped short. I could feel Joe laughing as he ran into me, catching me before I fell over. His arms stayed around me, holding me to him.

Dillon and Winnie stopped laughing the second they saw Ranger. They looked abashed, like two naughty children being caught by their parents. Dillon reached out and hit the stop button on the washer. Moments later, there was silence, except for the banging of the plumbing from the hot water heater in the corner.

"Ms. Stapleton, you will come with me," Ranger commanded, with no sign of levity in his tone. Dillon and Winnie just stared at him. "Now," Ranger added firmly.

"Who, me?" Winnie asked, a large bubble forming over her mouth as she tried to speak. She burst the bubble with her hand as she covered her mouth in embarrassment.

Ranger didn't answer. He just waited, expectantly.

"This is my girlfriend, Winnie Goodwin," Dillon told Ranger, as if making an awkward introduction.

Ranger continued to wait.

Dillon looked pleadingly at me. I raised my eyebrows, indicating I was at a loss. What did he expect me to do?

"She has ID," Dillon told Ranger. "This is Ranger. He's a bounty hunter," he explained to the wisp of a girl who was now shivering in his arms. "He seems to have mistaken you for someone else." Her black eye makeup was ringing her eyes and running down her face. I had to admit, I was having a hard time seeing Maggie Stapleton's blonde image in that ashen, vampish face framed with black fringes of hair.

Dillon reached out for the girl's purse and tossed it to Ranger. Ranger opened the purse, took out the wallet, and examined it. It wasn't new. It was used. Everything in her purse was broken in. Winnie Goodwin's driver's license was splitting a little at the edges from use. The spot it filled in her wallet had a clear outline of the card worn into it. There were wrappers and trash in the bottom, and cheap pens from the grocery store. The black CoverGirl eye-shadow compact was half used. The Maybelline pressed powder and burgundy red lipstick was down to traces. Nothing new. Nothing in that purse indicated ownership by Maggie Stapleton.

"Did you lease Stephanie's apartment, Winnie Goodwin?" Ranger asked her.

"W-What?" she stammered, looking confused.

"Winnie lives with Dillon," I told Ranger. "She's a good kid. Stop scaring her."

Ranger wasn't looking at me, so I gave Dillon a meaningful look. I was going to try to help him, if I could. He nodded gratefully. Joe, however, wasn't saying anything. I knew he wasn't comfortable backing me up when I was telling an outright lie.

Ranger zipped the purse closed and tossed it back to Dillon. "She's a little young for you, don't you think?" Dillon had at least ten years on her.

Dillon just scowled at Ranger. "Not really," he said. At this point, he was pretty much holding the poor girl up on her feet.

"I think they look pretty good together," Joe said. Ranger glanced at him, as if he were just noticing Joe's presence. Then he returned his focus to the girl.

Ranger had a certain effect on most women. Ranger could be scary and imposing, but even then, most women were unable to keep their eyes off him. The girl wasn't responding in a natural way. She was overcome with fear, and she showed no interest in checking Ranger out. It was going to give her away.

I broke free from Joe. I grabbed Ranger's arm and turned him to face me, trying to distract him from examining the girl any further." You think Maggie Stapleton is living in my apartment?" I asked, trying to sound shocked.

"Yes," he said.

"And you believe this why?" I demanded. "Did you hurt Mooner or Dougie?"

"No," he assured me. "We enhanced the video and read their lips."

I paused for a beat. Was he kidding?

"Let's all go up and have a look," Ranger suggested. His suggestion sounded a lot like an order.

"Maggie's not FTA," I reminded Ranger. "You can't just go barging in there."

"Not without a warrant," Dillon said nervously.

Ranger reached into his cargo pocket and produced a copy of a search warrant. "Margaret Stapleton is officially on the missing persons list. I have been legally contracted by her family to locate her. I have the legal authority to search the apartment if I believe she may be inside."

"Don't you need the police to serve a warrant?" Dillon asked Joe.

"Yep," Joe agreed.

"I'm sure the police have better things to do." Ranger waited for a response, but Dillon was still thinking. "Do I need to make the call?" Ranger asked. Clearly he would make the call for assistance if Dillon refused to cooperate.

Finally, Dillon shook his head no. He didn't want to get into it with Ranger. "I'll just get my keys."

"Don't need them," Ranger said, marching us all over to the elevator and pressing two. No one spoke. The sound of water dripping from Dillon and Maggie filled the silence.

The five of us walked down the hall. Ranger pulled out his lock picking tools and the door swung open seconds later.

The apartment was sparsely furnished...just as I left it. My couch. My television. My dining room table. Joe had the boathouse furnished. I only had to bring my clothes, toiletries, and personal belongings. Nothing looked out of place. I noticed Ranger's eyes lingering over the kitchen counter where my cookie jar used to sit. Then he glanced at me quickly before moving on.

Ranger swept the apartment. I followed him. He checked the fridge. It was bare except for some Iceland Spring bottled water...from Iceland. According to the advertising on the bottle, drinking this water would make you live longer. I could see Ranger was familiar with the brand. No surprise there.

I followed Ranger to the bedroom. I tried not to look at the bed, while he ignored my effort. There was a time not long ago that Ranger would have been teasing me about my awkward embarrassment in situations like this. But all humor was gone now. Our partnership was over. The pain felt like an emotional bruise. I knew Ranger felt it too. But he didn't say anything. He focused on the job.

He checked the dresser drawers. He found fine clothing, including top of the line lingerie. There were four pairs of designer shoes and two evening gowns in the closet. The makeup in the bathroom was, Christian Dior. The laundry hamper was empty. There was no hair in the sink or in the drain in the tub. Everything was spotless. There was no trace of Winnie Goodwin in the apartment.

Ranger and I returned to the living room.

"Find anything?" Joe asked.

"Ranger was right. It looks like Margaret is living here," I said. I turned to Ranger. "I guess you'll be camping out here, waiting for your quarry, just like old times." But without me, I thought silently. The thought brushed dully against my bruised heart. I headed for the door.

"Hold it," Ranger ordered.

"No, you hold it," I barked at Ranger. "Winnie showed you her ID. You can see that she doesn't live here. And you have no reason to continue to badger Dillon. He granted you access to the apartment, just like you wanted. And technically, you're breaking and entering. So, we're going now."

No one challenges Ranger like that. No one, but me. A look passed between us. We both knew Winnie was Margaret Stapleton. We both knew I didn't want Ranger returning Maggie to her former, ill-fated life. She was on the verge of having a new life with Dillon, strange as it would be for both of them. But Ranger didn't have a choice. He would give her a little more time, but eventually, he had to bring her in.

There was something else in his eyes. He knew I was lashing out at him reflexively. He wasn't surprised. I had never been able to process the changes in our relationship as well as he could. Ranger cut his eyes from me to the door, his face blank.

I opened the apartment door, ushering Dillon and Winnie out.

Joe closed the distance between us. "Hellcat," he whispered accusingly at me, just loud enough for Ranger to pick it up. He seemed pleased, and slightly amused. I couldn't understand why. He lead the way out the door, pulling me behind him. I let the door close behind me without a backward glance.

Dillon and Winnie disappeared into the elevator as Joe pulled me into the stairwell. "Come here, Cupcake." He surprised me by pressing me into the wall once we reached the landing. He kissed me deeply, passionately, making my body tingle from head to toe.

"Wow," I gasped, as we came up for air. "What was that about?"

"I'm crazy about you," Joe whispered into my ear with his husky, bedroom voice.

"Uh, we can't get that involved here in the stairwell," I told him. "This is a public place."

"No one in this building takes the stairs," he reminded me.

"But, Ranger or Tank," I reminded him.

"They won't. And I don't care," he answered, kissing me again. Ten seconds later, I didn't care either.


	25. Detecting DeChooch

I was re-arranging my clothes, thanking God that Ranger had not stumbled across us, as Joe and I exited the stairwell into the lobby.

I was surprised to find Tank was still standing at parade rest in front of the elevator. Ranger hadn't come down yet. I was afraid Tank may had heard us, but he didn't say anything. Maybe he had called Ranger to warn him. I felt my cheeks burning.

As we climbed into the Camaro, I turned to Joe. "We need donuts."

"Tasty Pastry it is," he said, turning the engine over and pulling out of the lot.

Since the wedding, I had needed relatively few donuts and Tastykakes. I hadn't been stalked, shot at, blown up, or assaulted in weeks. But the emotional ups and downs over the past few days with Terri and Ranger had me turning to the bakery for comfort once again.

Joe and I split a half dozen Boston cremes. I was biting into my third donut, and feeling a little better, when my cell phone rang. It was Dave Nelson.

"Hey," I said.

"We're all set for tomorrow. There will not be a viewing, just a funeral service beginning at 1:00 p.m.," Dave said.

"How did Scooter's work turn out?" I was curious to know.

"Um, he's still working. He won't let me see until he's done, so I don't know yet. We have the announcement in today's paper, and it will run again tomorrow. But we need you to get the gossip started on the Berg grapevine. I'll leave you to it," Dave said, and he disconnected.

"That was Dave," I told Joe. "The funeral is tomorrow at 1:00."

I dialed my parent's house. Grandma answered on the third ring.

"Stephanie, I'm so glad you called." She sounded excited.

"You want a ride to the funeral tomorrow," I assumed.

"You betcha. To think that fella you found at that weenie roast fire had been down there all those years. I can't wait to get a look at him."

I cringed. "Yeah, about that. You know it will be a closed casket," I told her. If Grandma thought she had permission, it would take all the fun out of prying the lid up.

"That's a gyp!" she complained. "How do we know he's really in there? He won't weigh anything."

"He'll be in there. Dave and Scooter wouldn't put an empty casket in front of all those people."

"But, how do you know if you aren't allowed to look?"

"Have you been down to Clara's?" I already knew the answer.

"Sure. I stopped in this morning for a quick wash and set. I want to look good in case I'm caught by photographers. It's bound to be in the papers."

I was sure of that. I could already imagine the headline, "More Mazur Mayhem at the Mortuary".

There was a beep on the line. "There's another call. The phone's been ringing off the hook all morning," Grandma said excitedly. The grapevine didn't need priming. It was working like a well oiled machine.

"I'll pick you up at noon," I told her.

"I'll be ready," Grandma promised, disconnecting.

I was on my last donut when my cell phone rang again. It was Ranger.

"Yo," I answered, hoping I didn't sound as anxious as I felt.

"Yo," he said. There was silence for a beat. "I hear there's a funeral tomorrow."

"Yeah."

"I also heard something about you being a gold digger," he said. I could hear him smiling.

"Where did you hear that?" I asked. If someone had leaked the story about the treasure, we would have to act fast.

"Three guesses."

"Barnhardt."

"Got it in one," he said.

This friendly banter seemed reassuring all of a sudden. But, what about Joe and Terry. If I thought Joe was going to have on-going friendly phone calls with Terry, I would lose my mind. I looked over at Joe. He was watching me, curious to know who I was talking to.

"Were there details to this story?" I asked.

"You found a treasure map on the body, and you've been running around town with a metal detector."

"No on the treasure map. Yes on the metal detector," I told him.

"Does that mean there is a treasure?" he pressed.

"Gotta go," I said, and disconnected.

Wherever he was, I knew Ranger was smiling. I could feel it.

"Ranger," I said, in answer to Joe's questioning look. "He heard about Barnhardt's treasure map theory."

My cell phone rang again. It was Ranger.

"Yo," I said.

"You hung up on me," he said. "Don't."

I blew out a sigh. "Was there something else?"

"Yeah. You should know better than to play games with me, Babe."

"Who, me?"

"And you better be able to bring DeChooch in without Rangeman assistance this time."

"Not a problem," I told him, full of false bravado. It was a second later before I remembered I hadn't told Ranger we were working the O'Brien case.

I sensed the smile at the other end. "Later." And he disconnected.

I looked over at Joe. He didn't look angry.

"If Terry was calling you, I think I'd lose my mind," I admitted.

Joe took my hand in his. "I won't lie. Part of me will always love Terry. But, she would destroy us if she could. I can't allow that. There's no respect there."

He took a deep breath before continuing. "I'm not crazy about Ranger. I know he'll always love you. Part of me hates that. Part of me understands that. I even pity him sometimes."

Joe held my hand to his lips, kissing my ring. "I trust you, Stephanie Morelli, even if I can't trust Ranger."

A tear rolled down my cheek.

"Do you miss Terry?" I asked.

"Not when I'm with you. And I plan to spend every day of the rest of my life with you. So, no. I don't think I'm going to have a chance to miss Terry."

I wanted to say I didn't miss Ranger, but it would be a lie.

"I know you miss him," he said softly. "I'll do my best to keep your mind off Ranger."

But I'll never forget about Ranger, I thought to myself, knowing it was true.

"Why aren't you angry?" I asked.

"I don't know," he admitted. "You're mine, and we both know it. I guess I don't mind making him jealous."

"That's not very nice of you," I said.

"You weren't very nice yourself," he said, referring to my most recent performance.

"No, I wasn't," I agreed, feeling ashamed of myself.

"It made me jealous," he admitted, kissing my fingertips slowly, making me melt.

"I noticed," I said, breathlessly.

"But you're not going to be working with Ranger again," he said firmly.

"I know," I agreed.

"I would like nothing more than to take you home right now, but we need a payday. We have to get serious about finding O'Brien."

"If we want to find O'Brien, we need to find DeChooch," I said, pulling my fingers away from Joe's.

He leaned back in his seat, turning the engine over, and pulling into traffic.

"Ok, let's work the case," he said, putting his cop face on. "DeChooch is on the lam. Someone has to be hiding him. It's time to start shaking the tree and see what falls out."

We were cruising down Hamilton, right past the bonds office. Joyce's car was out front. We pulled into the space right in front of her, and got out.

"What are we doing at the bond's office?" I asked.

"We're visiting Mary Maggie Mason."

DeChooch used to be part owner of The Snake Pit, the night club where Mary Maggie used to work as a mud wrestler. Much to my surprise, she was not only athletically gifted, she was a bookworm. She saved up her winnings and opened a specialty book store next door to the bonds office. It was her white caddy that DeChooch left sitting on the railroad tracks.

Joe and I entered the book shop, making the little cows bell over the door chime, announcing our presence. Mary Maggie rose from a bean bag in the reading nook.

"Well, if it isn't Morelli and Morelli," she said. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" She was eyeing Joe when the word pleasure rolled off her tongue. I rolled my eyes.

"The usual," I groaned.

"You're looking for DeChooch, again," she guessed.

"Of course."

"Have you seen him?" Joe asked in his no-nonsense cop voice.

"No, I haven't seen him."

"Is there someone else we should be asking?" Joe's voice was forceful, insinuating that she knew more than she was saying.

"You're not a cop anymore, Morelli. You can't hold aiding and abetting or hindering a police investigation over my head this time. Do me a favor, and leave me out of it, okay?"

"Have you heard from Pinwheel Soba or Dave Vincent, his former partners at The Snake Pit?" Joe continued questioning.

"No. I don't work there anymore. But I don't think they would be helping DeChooch after he tore up Pinwheel's house like it was target practice."

I didn't think so either. This felt like a dead end.

We returned to the car, not surprised to find Joyce sitting behind the wheel of her own vehicle, ready to follow us.

I rolled my eyes. Joe just grinned and got in.

"Where to now?" I asked.

"We'll try his nephew, Ronald DeChooch."

I gave an involuntary shiver. Ronald hit on me and sent me flowers the last time I was looking for DeChooch. His idea of poetry wasn't any better than Joe's. That is to say, I've heard more romantic limericks.

We pulled up in front of Ronald's house, but his car was gone. So, we drove to Ace Pavers down on Front Street, near the river. True to form, he was in the back room, playing cards with Benny Colucchi and Ziggy Garvey. Benny and Ziggy were aged members of Eddie DeChooch's social club. They all looked up, surprised to see me and Joe entering the room.

"Hey, it's Stephanie and Joe Morelli. Private dicks, eh?" Ronald announced with a rude laugh.

Benny laughed, making his many rows of chins dance like Jell-O. "You aren't after Eddie again, are ya?"

"I hope not," Ziggy said, equally amused. "'Cause you ain't gonna find him."

"Why's that?" Joe asked, taking the lead on this one.

"Wouldn't you like to know," Ronald said in an oily voice. Wise guys.

"Why don't you just leave Choochie alone. Haven't you put him through enough?" Ziggy whined, looking at me.

"Me?" I was almost yelling. "What I put him through? Are you serious?. What about what he put me through?"

I started towards Ziggy, but Joe held his arm out, pressing me back behind him, reigning me in. This got another laugh from Benny, so I gave him my Berg death glare.

"You fellas sure seem to know a lot," Joe said, pulling up a chair. "You gonna deal me in?"

"You think you're gonna win a few hands and get some information out of us," Ronald assumed, "But it ain't happening. Not today. Not ever."

"Actually, I was just going to try to make rent," Joe admitted.

"What you got to start with?" Benny asked.

Joe pulled out his wallet and tossed $50 on the table. My eyes were wide. I knew that was the last of our gas money, but I didn't say anything. I just stood behind Joe's chair, watching.

"Well, now...give the man some chips," Ronald said to Benny.

Twenty minutes later, Joe was sitting on $500 in chips, and Benny was breaking out in a sweat. Little beads of perspiration were making the long trip down his chins to his shirt collar.

"Cash me in," Joe said, handing his chips to Benny. "Gotta go."

"Hey, now, you know you can't do that. You gotta give us a chance to break even, here."

"No I don't. I told you when I sat down here I was playing to make rent. So, give me my rent money," Joe said, forcing the chips into Benny's hand.

"We don't keep that kind of dough around here," Benny said.

"You do if you're gonna play poker in the Berg," Joe said, unfazed. "Don't you even think about messing with me, Colucci." The words were there, but true menace was missing from his voice.

"Now, here's the thing," Ronald said. "We don't like non-members coming in here thinking they can make the rules in OUR social club. You get me?"

Joe rose out of his seat and got right in Ronald's face.

"The Berg won't take kindly to your social club giving it a bad name. And neither will Anthony Thumbs." The name dropped like a ton of bricks.

"You wouldn't dare," Ziggy breathed. I thought I could hear his bony knees knocking under the table.

"You bet your ass I would," Joe said, still in Ronald's face. "And since this is technically your establishment, I expect the first visit will be paid to you. It'll be sort of like an IRS audit, from what I hear."

"You really play hard ball, don't ya, Morelli?" Ronald croaked. "OK, ok. Everybody calm down. We all know what you want. Information."

"No. I want my $500," Joe assured him. "You don't know where DeChooch is any more than I do."

"Sure we do. We just ain't telling," he said.

"Whatever. I don't care. Cash in my chips, or take your chances."

Ronald swallowed and looked over at Ziggy. Ziggy shook his head 'no'.

"Now you're really gambling," I said, making everyone stop and stare at me. I couldn't help it. I didn't know where it came from. But it seemed to have taken the edge off Joe's well orchestrated tension. Damn.

Ronald let out a nervous laugh. "Yeah, you had me going there for a minute, Morelli. I almost believed you would do it."

Joe stood. "Last chance."

"We'll just keep that $50 as a cover charge," Ronald told him, standing. He was trying to stare Joe down, but he was coming up about four inches short.

Ziggy and Benny were surreptitiously reaching for their guns.

"You really gonna shoot us?" Joe asked, not believing it for a second. I, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. I'd seen that DeChooch had done to Loretta Ricci, and I thought these guys might be just about crazy enough to do it. Sure, they'd regret it later, but a fat lot of good that would do us.

"Come on, Joe," I said, tugging his sleeve.

"I'll be collecting that $500, and the whereabouts of DeChooch," Joe warned them. He slung an arm around my neck. "We'll be back in an hour," he said, as we headed out the door.

We got back in the car, and Joe pulled away from the curb.

"Sorry," I said.

"Don't worry about it. They'll pay up."

"Are you really going to call Anthony Thumbs?" I asked, not sure.

Everyone in Trenton knew Anthony Thumbs. He was the head of the Trenton Mafia, head of The Family. What I knew about him personally came from Connie. She heard things from her uncle, Bingo, who was quite a bit more closely related to Anthony than Morelli or I were. That is to say, we were not at all related.

"Give Connie a call," he said, rounding a corner.

I dialed, and Connie picked up after a couple rings.

"Stephanie. I heard about the funeral tomorrow. You're going to be there, right?"

"Right."

"Are you in charge of Edna?"

"Yep."

"I knew it!" she squealed.

"That's actually not why I called," I told her.

"Really? What's up?"

"Uh," I looked to Joe. "Not sure, exactly." I turned to Joe. "I have Connie on the phone. Did you want to talk to her?"

"See if Bingo can give Ronald a call. I think that'll be enough to scare him."

I looked at Joe for a beat. "What does Bingo do for Anthony?"

"Ask Connie," he said, grinning. He knew. He just wasn't going to tell me.

I blew out a sigh and put my ear back to the phone.

"Joe and I were just over at Ace Pavers looking for Eddie DeChooch. We think he's responsible for Judge O'Brien's disappearance."

"That's a no brainer. Are you getting paid for this one?" she asked.

"We will if we can locate O'Brien," I told her.

"And?"

"And Joe got into a poker game with Ronald DeChooch, Benny Colucci, and Ziggy Garvey. He was in for $50, and ended up with $500. But they won't pay up. Joe told them he would report them to the local gaming board."

"What local gaming board?"

"Anthony Thumbs."

Connie let out a low whistle. "Oh, that gaming board."

"Yeah."

"So, what's the favor?"

"Joe thought maybe your Uncle Bingo would get a kick out of calling down there and putting the fear of God into Ronald."

I could hear Connie snort and then laugh. "I'm sure he'd like nothing better. As long as you're not actually asking me to get Anthony Thumbs involved."

"No, I don't think that will be necessary."

"Good. 'Cause it ain't gonna happen. That is not a man you want to annoy with petty problems. He tends to end annoyances by ending the cause of the annoyance, if you get my drift."

"Got it," I said, squelching a grimace. "What does Bingo do for the family, anyway?" I almost forgot to ask.

"Oh, you know...a little of this, a little of that."

"You could tell me, but you'd have to kill me?" I suggested.

"Not me."

"But someone close to you?" I surmised.

"Don't be a stranger," she said, and disconnected.

"She's calling Bingo," I said.

Joe was pulling up to the Catholic church on Roebling. This was the church DeChooch shot up while he was drinking in the sanctuary with Father Carolli.

"We're going to interrogate a priest?" I asked, feeling a little panicked. My mother was going to kill me.

"You're married to me now. You don't have to answer to your mother. And don't start with me about the pineapple upside-down cake. She's been threatening to cut you off for years. It's a hollow threat." Joe gave me a quick peck on the cheek and got out.

I took a deep breath and got out of the car, following Joe up the sidewalk and up the stairs. A deep feeling of dread was building in the pit of my stomach. I thought I could hear the orchestra in the background building tension, sort of like in a horror movie, when everyone in the theater starts yelling at the dumb college girl on the screen. I felt like I should run. That would be the smart thing. But I just couldn't. It felt wimpy.

So, I followed Joe inside. I paused to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. There were candles flickering, and I could see Father Carolli's distinct shape snoozing in the confessional. He had left the door open to get some air, it seemed.

Joe sat me in the back row and proceeded to the confessional, taking his place inside and closing the door loudly enough to rouse Carolli. Carolli sat up and shut the door. I made the sign of the cross, since I forgot when I came in. Then I did it again. I was worried that Joe might be about to incur the wrath of Father Carolli.

I didn't hear anything. I waited for the sound of astonishment or angry yelling, but nothing happened. I fidgeted in my seat. I looked through a hymnal. I gazed at the ceiling and took in the art work. I noted the fine restoration job done on the portrait of Jesus. DeChooch had winged him in the knee. I wondered if DeChooch had said all the Hail Mary's Father Carolli had intended to order as penance. Probably not.

I felt the orchestra ratcheting up a few more notches when I heard the church door open behind me. The light spilled in, and an elongated silhouette flashed across the carpet in the aisle before the door shut. There was no doubt. Joyce Barnhardt was approaching. The staccato of the cellos in my head became urgent.

Joyce's spike heeled boots were silenced by the carpet, or the echo in the sanctuary would have been shocking.

"What do you want?" I spat.

"Move over," she insisted, bossy as ever. She slid into the pew beside me, nudging me over.

"Why are you following us?" I asked her.

"You know why."

"There's no treasure map," I said. I wasn't fibbing. There was no map.

"You're in church. Are you going to lie, in church?" she asked, appraising me.

"I'm not lying," I insisted.

"Sure you are."

"You bugged both our cars. We were having you on. Get a clue," I said, rolling my eyes at her.

"I saw you running around the park with a metal detector."

"Yeah, but you didn't see me digging, did you?"

"You will, as soon as you find the treasure."

"Joyce, we knew you bugged the cars," I repeated slowly, hoping she'd get it this time.

"So, there's no treasure?" she asked, pointedly.

She was daring me to say that there wasn't. Yikes. How to answer that...in church.

"There is no treasure buried in Cadwalader Park." There. Not lying.

"Fine. So, where is it?" Joyce said. She knew me too well.

Joe finally emerged from the confessional, and I breathed a sigh of relief. He noticed Joyce sitting beside me and made a bee-line for us with long strides.

"This isn't over," Joyce said, retreating.

It is for now, I thought.

"Everything okay?" Joe asked.

I nodded.

"What did Joyce want?"

"The usual."

"You didn't lie in church, did you?"

"Who me?" I smiled at the concerned look on his face. "No. I told her there was absolutely, unequivocally, no buried treasure at Cadwalader Park."

This got a smile out of him.

"Come on, Cupcake. We struck out with Father Carolli. Let's swing by DeChooch's house. Maybe you can get the goods from Angela Marguchi."

Angela Marguchi was DeChooch's next door neighbor. She was like the bionic woman, with Teflon coated, stainless steel hips and knees that would last a lot longer than she would. She was rail thin, with thinning hair, and thin lips that always held a cigarette.

We rolled up with Joyce on our bumper. I got out and strolled up to Angela's front door. A gray cat came running up on the porch as I knocked. Angela could be heard in side, turning down the television and ambling over to the door. She wasn't surprised when the cat raced inside. She looked to the curb, taking in Joe and Joyce sitting there waiting for me.

"You got a permit for that parade?" she asked.

I nodded, smiling. "How's it going?"

"You know. Same ol', same ol'. Been quiet around here without you. Your grandma is having to resort to making up stories."

"What kind of stories?" I asked. She had my attention.

"She says you were cooking weenies on the river bank. The fire got out of control and the fire department came to put it out. But the hoses broke through the dirt, and you found a skeleton. And now they're having a funeral for the skeleton at Stiva's. No one knows who this guy is, but the whole Berg is invited. Isn't that the dumbest story you've ever heard? She made that up, right?"

I had never known Angela to talk this long. Her cigarette was dancing up and down, up and down, and I couldn't take my eyes off it. It was like it was glued to her lip. It defied gravity.

"No, she's right. I did find a skeleton. And the funeral is tomorrow."

Her eyes grew wide. "Get out," she said. She took a long drag, reconsidering. "Do you think it will be a good turn out?"

"Probably. But that isn't why I'm here. I was hoping you might have seen Eddie."

"DeChooch? Maybe you're the one cracking up," she said, looking me up and down. "Hun, you're the one who put him away."

"He's out," I told her.

"Say what?" Her eyes were wide. "No. Someone would have told me."

"He hasn't been out long."

"They let him out?"

"No, he broke out."

This got her laughing. "Yeah, right. That blind old geezer broke out of the state pen. I don't think so." She started coughing and laughing at the same time. Smoker's cough. "You're just like your grandma. Always telling whoppers."

"No, seriously. DeChooch escaped," I said, as Angela went back inside, presumably for a drink of water. She closed the door behind her.

I walked back to the car.

"That didn't go so well," I said to Joe. "She didn't believe me that DeChooch escaped."

"It is kind of hard to believe," he agreed.

"How did an octogenarian get loose from the state pen?" I asked.

"The Chief didn't know when we talked. If he'd heard something, he probably would have called."

"If you were in prison, how would you get out?" I asked Joe.

Since Joe had almost been sent to prison for murder once, I figured he'd actually spent a little time thinking about this particular scenario.

"Most people don't break out on their own. It takes orchestration. It takes money and connections, usually from the outside as well as inside."

"What connections does DeChooch have to make a prison break happen?" I wondered.

"The family usually uses their attorneys to pass messages to other prisoners on the inside," he mused.

"DeChooch is kind of part of the family," I said.

I was remembering the fiasco caused when DeChooch cut Mickey D's heart out of his dead corpse because he misunderstood Anthony Thumbs. Anthony had ordered DeChooch to, "Bring the fart to me." DeChooch heard, "Bring the heart to me." He was practically deaf as well as blind. And he had to take a whiz every five minutes due to prostate trouble. This was not a guy capable of executing a time-sensitive plan, let alone remembering what the plan was.

"If the family were going to send an attorney in to help orchestrate an escape, who would they use?"

Joe thought about it for a few minutes. We were on our way back to Ace Pavers.

"I would use Ryan Perin. He's not exactly reliable, but he's easy to buy."

Everyone knew Ryan Perin was a coke-head. How he had managed to keep his license was a mystery.

"I thought he would be disbarred like Sy Bernstein by now," I said.

"Well, Sy was greedy. That was a little different," Joe said slowly, obviously having a realization.

"What?" I asked as we rolled to a stop in front of Ace Pavers.

"In a minute," he said, getting out and marching into the office.

I was on his heels, not surprised to see $500 cash being shoved into Morelli's outstretched palm by Ronald.

"Here's your money. Now go. Get out!" he yelled.

"And the information," Joe insisted.

"You should know," he said meaningfully.

"Maybe I just want to hear it from you." Joe's tone was urgent and demanding.

We were all aware that "never" had just arrived.

"Fine. You're the big man. You win," Ronald ranted.

I noticed that Benny and Ziggy had fled the scene, leaving Ronald high and dry. I worked hard not to crack a smile. Ronald was sweating profusely. I could only imagine what that call from Bingo had entailed.

"First, who broke DeChooch out?" Joe asked.

"Anthony," he said, simply.

"Why?" Joe asked, making the question sound rhetorical. I knew he was just fishing, but he was good.

"Because Eddie DeChooch is family."

"And?" Joe pressed.

"He'd made his point, alright?" Ronald was angry and pacing, wiping his brow with his shirt sleeve.

"And what was the point, Ronald?" Joe asked, rapping smartly on the table top to get Ronald's attention.

"That if Choochie hadn't disgraced the family, he would have had a lawyer. He would have had his day in court, and he would be home free right now."

"But he's not at home, is he?"

"No!" Ronald yelled back at Joe, getting more and more agitated.

"Because?"

"He's out! I know! You know! Everyone knows. And now I'm the same as out, thanks to you!" The implication was clear. DeChooch had been released from prison, but he had been disowned by the family. Anthony Thumbs wasn't hiding DeChooch, and neither was the Berg. No one would. Not even Ronald.

"Remember that next time you want to play games with the big boys," Joe told him, tapping the wad of cash on the table top before turning to leave.

I shuffled out the door ahead of him, and we walked smartly back to the car and got in. Joe revved the engine and chirped the tires taking off. Testosterone, I smiled, rolling my eyes just a little. Then again, Joe was kind of hot when he acted like that. It was a little exciting.

"You know what happened," I presumed.

"I have a hunch. We need to pay a call on Sy Bernstein before DeChooch has a chance to warn him." Joe stepped on the gas, blowing through back streets instead of going down the main drag.

"He's probably already calling him," I said.

"He's not thinking straight. And he hasn't realized he just gave me information I didn't already have. It'll come to him, eventually."

"Do you know where you're going?" I asked. Joe seemed to know exactly which streets to stop at and which traffic signs to ignore.

"I worked these streets, Cupcake. I know them like the back of my hand."

I tried to relax, but Joe's energy level was buzzing. I tightened my seat belt after we caught air on a large dip in the road. I was feeling very close to God for the second time that day.

We slid to a stop in front of a dilapidated apartment complex three blocks from Stark. Joe got out and came around to my side of the car, helping me out.

"Stay close to me," he said. I could feel a gun bulge in the back of his shirt. It was his back up piece. He hadn't been carrying at the church. I wondered when he had slipped it in to his waistband. Maybe before he went into Ace Pavers. Maybe just now.

Joe stayed in front of me as we entered the foyer. We went up the dark stairwell. I could hear rats scurrying as we approached the door to the second floor. Joe pushed it open cautiously and we walked at a brisk pace down the hall to apartment 232.

"You know exactly where Sy Bernstein lives?" I asked.

"Shhh," he hissed at me.

Joe knocked loudly on the door. The sound echoed in the empty hallway. There was another abrupt scurrying sound, and I tried not to let out a scream as a rat scampered over my sneaker.

Joe knocked again. "Sy, open this door," he called out.

We could hear the little squeak as Sy opened the cover to the peep hole, and then let it drop back into place.

Joe let out a frustrated breath. It didn't seem like Sy was going to let us in, but finally, the door opened.

"Get in here," Sy hissed.

We slipped inside and he closed the door behind us, throwing the bolts back into place.

"What now?" he complained to Joe. They were obviously well acquainted.

"DeChooch," Joe said. "Spill it."

Suddenly, it all made sense. Sy was an informant. Joe's informant. Joe's mob informant. But, what about Terry? I tried to focus, to work the case. I just couldn't wrap my mind around it all in that moment.

"Thumbs sprang DeChooch," Sy shrugged.

"You sprang DeChooch," Joe accused.

"Me?" Sy laughed.

"You finally had a chance to grind that ax, didn't you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sy asked, dropping into a ratty old recliner and lighting up a cigarette. He was completely at ease, almost to the point that it was unnatural.

"O'Brien."

Sy laughed. "Don't know what you're trying to insinuate...Officer."

Sy's exaggerated use of Joe's former title left little doubt that his cooperation had come to an end. Joe had nothing to offer him that he wanted. We had no leverage.

"Thumbs expected better from a Judge on his payroll. Didn't sit too well that he left Choochie up the creek without a paddle."

"Anthony Thumbs wouldn't have lifted a finger to help DeChooch," Joe said, convinced. "Not after he embarrassed him with the Mickey D. thing."

Sy chuckled. "Nice visual metaphor. 'Thumbs wouldn't have lifted a finger'."

Joe wasn't amused. He was standing, hands on hips, glaring down at Sy. "You broke DeChooch out of prison, so you could frame him for the Judge's murder."

I felt my jaw drop. I quickly tried to close it and assume a knowing stance, backing Joe up.

Sy was toying with his cigarette lighter.

"If I were the murdering kind, do you think I'd let you or your partner walk out of here?" he challenged.

My breath caught in my throat. I had been threatened before. I knew what it sounded like when the threat was real. It sounded just like this. Sy Bernstein was a man on the edge. The edge of what, I wasn't completely sure.

I stepped closer to Joe. As I did, I recognized the butt of a gun sticking up between the arm of the recliner and the seat cushion. If Joe tried to draw on Sy, it would be too close to call.

"Joe, let's go," I said, closing the distance between us casually, as if I had lost interest in annoying this loser. "He's crazy. He's probably on drugs, just like Perin."

Joe didn't move, so I tugged at his shirt, my hand behind his back, reaching for the gun. Joe knew what I was doing. He contracted his stomach muscles as I removed the gun from his waistband.

As soon as I had the gun, Joe lunged at Sy, catching him by surprise. The recliner tumbled backwards, and Joe and Sy were scrambling for the gun that had skittered across the floor.

"Hold it!" I yelled, aiming Joe's gun at Sy as Joe jumped clear.

Sy froze in mid-crawl on the floor, no more than six inches from the gun. Joe was itching to jump on him, but if he did, I would lose my shot. Sy was studying me, trying to decide if I was capable of killing him or just wounding him.

"That's my wife," Joe warned him. His tone conveyed so much. Menace. Love. Pride. Confidence. Permission.

Sy reluctantly withdrew his hand. Joe reached down and yanked him up from the floor, slamming him down on the couch. Sy's head bounced against the wall, leaving a dent in the plaster. I kept the gun steady, pointed to towards the floor in Sy's general direction.

"Tell me where DeChooch and O'Brien are. I am not going to ask you again," Joe warned.

"Why are you protecting that thieving, dirty, rotten, S.O.B.?" Sy asked, shaking his head in disbelief.

"I'm not protecting either one. I'm bringing them in."

"No, you're not," he said, simply.

"One way or another, that's exactly what I'm doing," Joe assured him.

"All this time," Sy said, looking truly disappointed.

"What?" Joe urged him to continue.

"All this time...I thought you were one of the good guys."

Without warning, the door burst open behind us. Joe tackled me, and we were crashing through the second story window as gunfire erupted from the doorway, filling the apartment.


	26. The Fall Guy

Joe's Point of View

In the movies, thin panes of sugar glass break into tiny pieces. The sparkly dust virtually disappears as the main character continues to battle heroically. Maybe there are a few traces of blood if the makeup artist is on her game. But in reality, most people can't even get through the solid wood construction of the window frame, let alone a double pane of insulated glass. Jumping out a window is stupid. It's ridiculous. But, it seems well worth the effort as soon as automatic weapons become involved.

I only had two thoughts. The first was, "get out." The second was, "fire escape". I had used this fire escape once before when Sy had unexpected company. It was narrow, barely wide enough for our prone bodies. The back of Sy's apartment building faced the back of another apartment building. The narrow space between was 10 feet at most. The windows of the facing building were boarded up.

I had taken out the glass with my left arm and the window frame with my ribs. I took the impact on the gridiron with my back. The breath was knocked out of me. Bullets were whizzing right over us. There was no way to stand or leap. No chance to climb down. Someone would be pointing a big gun out that window in a matter of seconds.

Without hesitation, and without looking down, I pulled our legs and feet the rest of the way through the window as I rolled us hard off the edge, tucking Stephanie's head into my chest. Shards of glass dug deeper into my arm, and the metal edge of the fire escape scraped deeply down my left side, tearing my shirt and jeans, all the way down to my ankle.

We were falling awkwardly, head first. I thought we were dead. Bullets were coming through the window now, ricocheting between the brick exteriors. I rolled as hard as I could, almost righting us to horizontal before impact.

Here's the other thing I was trying not to think about as we fell. This space between the buildings wasn't really an alley. It was more of a trash dump. People had been tossing their garbage and unwanted furniture out these windows for years. And junkies were using it for everything. There were dirty needles, used condoms, fecal matter, and vomit down there. Which attracted rodents. And the mess had all been rained on and set on fire and fermented in the summer sun. It was like jumping head first into an open sewer, if not worse.

We landed hard, plowing into three feet of garbage. Steph landed on top of me, forcing me to expel what little air had been left in my lungs. And then there was silence. Time to change the clip, I thought. That takes about three, four seconds for a professional under stress who thinks he's got the upper hand.

I sucked in a breath, feeling the damage to my ribs respond with a stabbing pain. I shoved Stephanie to her feet, picked up the first heavy stick of wood I saw, and smashed it through the weathered plywood covering the nearest window of the opposite building. I tossed the table leg and pulled the sheet of plywood free, letting it fall. I grabbed Stephanie like a sack of potatoes and tossed her head-first through the hole. I nearly dropped her. I was slipping in garbage. It was like trying to run underwater. Every second ticked by in slow motion.

I was going to make a dive for the window when I heard the slide ratchet back on the automatic. I wasn't going to make it.

Suddenly, Stephanie appeared in the open window, providing cover fire. She had managed to hang onto my gun. The shooter was so surprised he dropped the automatic weapon. It clattered onto the fire escape as I dove past Stephanie into the empty apartment. It was dark inside. The alley was in shadow. We made for the opposite wall, feeling for the door, and made our way to a hallway. I kicked down a door to an apartment across the hall and we tore through that apartment to a boarded up window facing the street. Stephanie was out of bullets, but she used the barrel of the gun as a claw hammer, tearing at the sheet of plywood until I could get a hand hold. I ripped the boards away, and we scrambled out.

"Barnhardt!" she screamed, racing towards Joyce's idling vehicle. I couldn't believe she was still following us.

I was limping, but staying on Steph's tail as she dove into the backseat.

"What the hell?" Joyce yelled.

"Drive!" she screamed at Joyce.

I guess I must have looked bad, because she put her foot to the floor and tore out, leaving tracks.

"Hospital," Stephanie ordered.

"No shit," Joyce said, looking back at me in her rear view mirror.

My only focus now was on breathing. There wasn't a place on my body that wasn't in pain. Steph didn't know where to try to touch me.

"What can I do?" she asked.

"I'm all right," I choked out. "Just need a minute."

Three hours later, I woke up in the emergency room.

I was looking up at Louise Malinowski. Louise went to school with us back in the day. Now she was an ER nurse.

"Hey, Joe," she said smiling.

"Hey," I whispered. "Where's Steph?"

"Right here," she said. I could hear her voice, but I was too tired to look around. I felt her take my hand, and I closed my eyes. The room had started spinning a little.

"I'll get the doctor," Louise said.

""What happened?" I asked.

"You lost a lot of blood. They've been stitching you up, and pumping some more blood into you."

"Surgery?" I asked.

"I guess you could say it was minor surgery," she said. She wasn't joking.

"Mr. Morelli." A doctor addressing you formal is never a good sign.

"I know. Broken ribs, lacerations, blood loss," I said. The words had become like a chant in my head, repeating with each breath I took.

"I think we've got all the glass out of your arm. You've got 257 stitches, up and down your left side. None of the arteries were hit, but you were bleeding profusely from multiple wounds when you were admitted. You have been in and out of consciousness. We had to sedate you. And the ribs are just cracked, not broken."

"Oh, good," I said, trying to sound relieved.

"We'd like to keep you overnight," he said.

"Nope. I'm good," I said. After a few seconds struggle, I realized I couldn't sit up, and relaxed back onto the bed.

"You're strapped down," Steph told me.

"Oh, good," I said, trying to sound relieved. "Am I high?" I asked.

"Just a little," Louise said. "Do you need more?"

"Nope. I'm good," I said. I could hear sniggering, but I was strangely ambivalent.

I felt the restraints fall away, but I didn't try to get up again.

"Eddie's here," Steph told me.

"Gazarra?"

"Yeah."

"Am I naked?" I asked. It seemed like a reasonable question.

"Um. No," Steph said.

"Do you want to be?" Louise asked.

I heard Steph smack her in the arm. "Back off," she said.

That got me smiling.

Moments later, Stephanie and I were recounting the afternoon's events to Gazarra. I could hear his pen scratching on his notebook.

"Were you able to ID the shooter?" Eddie asked.

"It was DeChooch," I told him.

"What?" Steph gasped. "Ronald?"

"No. Eddie DeChooch," I said, feeling super calm despite Steph's growing agitation. "Did they give me morphine?"

"A little," Steph said.

"Maybe this isn't the bet time to be taking an official statement," Gazarra suggested. He clicked the pen closed and slipped the notebook back in his shirt pocket.

"Joe, what did you mean Sy got DeChooch out of prison?"

"Say what?" Eddie asked, clicking the pen open again.

"Sy Bernstein was responsible for springing DeChooch. He was going to let DeChooch take the fall when he off'd O'Brien," I said.

"How did you come to that conclusion?"

"One, DeChooch didn't just walk out of the pen. Someone helped him out. Two, it wasn't family money that did it. Three, I saw it on Sy's face when I put it to him."

"Why did Sy want to murder O'Brien?" Steph asked.

"O'Brien was on the take. We know this from his wife. And I knew from Sy from before. Sy was a defense attorney. He represented scum. He specialized in armed robbery and kidnapping and extortion."

"He specialized in working for the family," Gazarra surmised.

"So, how it worked was the family would pay Sy a healthy sum, and Sy was supposed to grease the right palms with it. Get the job done."

"But Sy got greedy," Steph remembered.

"Yeah. Sy wasn't paying O'Brien the going rate. So O'Brien correctly assumed Sy was lining his own pockets with O'Brien's share. So, after negotiations failed, O'Brien had Sy disbarred."

"How?" she asked.

'O'Brien allowed us to record Sy bribing him. Sy was convicted, and disbarred. And he didn't dare rat out O'Brien."

"That's motive," Gazarra agreed.

"Yeah. And he had opportunity," I continued.

"Ryan Perin," Steph guessed.

"But he needed money," Gazarra said. "Where'd he get the money?"

"After all those years defending armed robbers, he knows how to case a joint," I said. "Check the activity for the past month. I'll bet you see a pattern."

Gazarra pulled the daily report from his pocket and unfolded it. "How about...three bank night drop heists, two liquor store robberies, and a check cashing place? All of the descriptions could be a match for Sy."

"Any or all," I agreed.

"But, what was his plan?" Steph wondered "Spring DeChooch? Then what?"

"Off DeChooch. Make it look like an accident," I suggested.

"Easier said than done," Steph muttered. I could hear the eye roll.

"That plan obviously went wrong," Gazarra agreed.

"OK, let's start over," Steph said. "I'm DeChooch. I get a visit from Ryan Perin, offering to help break me out of prison."

"More likely, Perin paid a visit to another inmate who passed it along. That way, there is no record when we pull DeChooch's file," Eddie told her.

"Perin probably told DeChooch he was working on Anthony Thumb's orders. That's what Eddie told Ronald," I said, filling in the blanks.

"But Thumbs had nothing to do with it," She realized.

"Right."

"Ok. So, I believe Perin. I get out of prison. Then what?"

"Perin would have given DeChooch a time and place to meet. It would need to take place after O'Brien's disappearance. Sometime after the Tuesday before last."

"But, DeChooch either forgot, or missed his meeting, or just didn't go," she reasoned.

"Something like that," I agreed.

"OK. So, I'm Sy. I robbed several places to get the cash. I pay Perin to spring DeChooch. I kill O'Brien. I arrange for DeChooch to have an accident, to take the heat off me, but it goes sideways. Now, I'm trying to find and kill DeChooch?"

"Sounds logical," I said.

"Not to me it doesn't," Eddie argued. "Why was DeChooch shooting up Sy's apartment?"

"Easy. He figured out it wasn't Thumbs helping him out. He went to the source. He got the truth from Perin," I explained.

"And from Perin, he showed up at Sy's."

"So, he killed Sy for trying to frame him for murder," Steph agreed.

"Best I can figure," I said, yawning.

"So, now Sy's dead. Perin might be. DeChooch is in the wind. And we still don't have any idea where O'Brien is," Steph summarized.

"Where did he get an automatic weapon?" Gazarra asked.

"Perin's probably helping run guns," I suggested. "He's very agreeable these days, and he needs that kind of cash to support his habit. It's out of control."

"OK. I'll get an APB out on DeChooch, and I'll get this over to Bell. He's on the scene," Gazarra said, getting up to leave. "You get some rest."

I heard him hug Steph goodbye.

"Thanks, Eddie," she said.

"Take care of him," he told her.

"Yeah." She sat back down beside my bed.

"I love you," I said, slurring the words just a little.

"You saved my life," she whispered, taking my hand again. She lay her face in my palm and kissed it.

"You saved my life," I corrected her. "Are we going home now?" I asked.

"We don't have a car," she reminded me.

"What? No Rangeman vehicle?"

"Not this time," she said. "He called to see if you were okay."

"Did he sound disappointed?" I asked, not entirely joking.

"He sounded concerned," she said. "About you," she added.

"Call your Dad," I told her.

Two hours later, Stephanie and Frank were leading me down the dock to the boathouse. Bob was running circles around us, barking. He knew something was up. He just didn't know what.

"Untie us," I said to Frank. "I think we'll spend the night down river." It was already dark. I didn't want DeChooch finding us in the middle of the night. I couldn't move fast enough to defend. The drugs would wear off by morning. Then I'd just be sore and tired.

Frank tossed the lines onto the deck. I leaned on Steph and little as she guided me to the wheel. I cranked the engine, and it sputtered to life. I gave it some gas, and let it idle a few minutes. Steph waved to Frank. Then I hit the lights, and our little barge started down river.

"Is that my car?" I asked, looking over the back deck.

"Hey, yeah," she said, smiling.

Rangeman delivery. Great. Now I was going to have to sweep for bugs again.


	27. Hanging Around With Frank

Frank's Point of View

I watched Joe at the wheel, Stephanie by his side, helping him steer the houseboat down the Hudson. Satisfied that they had handled all they needed to for tonight, I walked back down the dock to my new cab. I breathed deeply. I loved that new car smell.

It was late, and I should have headed home. But I wasn't going to sleep anyway. I was going to worry about my little girl and my only son.

Yeah, I know. Albert was my son-in-law too, but he disrespected my sofa. Some things are sacred. The sanctity of our family room was violated, not to mention, he knocked up my first born while he was at it. Maybe I'm just being a hard ass. But I don't care.

Since I figured Joe could use a hand, I decided to turn off the "On Duty" light, and cruise around town looking for Sy's car. It was a no brainer that DeChooch would take his car. It's just the way the man thinks. It adds insult to injury, or in this case, death.

So, how do I know what Sy's driving? Police scanner. I've been listening to the police scanner in my cab ever since Stephanie started working for her cousin, Vinnie. I wouldn't say I'm proud, exactly. But I know she enjoys blowing up cars and burning down buildings, or she wouldn't be doing it. And there's that moment when I get to turn to the dumb ass in the back seat of my cab and say, "That's my little girl." It leaves them speechless every time.

I was trying to think like DeChooch. I broke out of prison. Cops are looking for me. Can't go home. Just killed a guy with a machine gun. What the heck am I going to do now? If it was me, I'd need a drink. And if he's had a drink, he'll have to take a leak. And that'll take him at least ten minutes. I figured I could take him, if I had to.

Sy's piece of crap was a mid-80's white Toyota Corolla. It was not found at his apartment, according to Gazarra's APB. Shouldn't be hard to spot that in the dark. I checked social clubs, back alley bars, and finally decided to head down Stark Street. It was the last place DeChooch was seen prior to the shooting. Maybe he was crashing down there with the other crazies.

I slowed down and took a good long look at Uncle Mickey's. Mostly, I was hoping to get a glimpse of the shot up limo I heard about. And sure enough, it was a beaut. I pulled in to get a closer look. I sat idling for a minute. It was just after 10 pm, but Uncle Mickey saw me and came bouncing out of the office, his red Jamaican dreads flying, hoping for a sale. I turned off the motor and stepped out.

"You looking to trade this in?" he asked me, showing me all his teeth.

"I'm Stephanie Plum's father," I informed him. If a black man can pale, he did.

"She was fine last time I saw her," he stammered, backing up, palms out towards me.

"I'm looking for Eddie DeChooch," I told him.

"Oh, man," he groaned. "That old geezer has been nothing but trouble."

That last part he said more to himself that to me. I sensed DeChooch had overstayed his welcome, so I took another stab at it.

"Is he staying here?" I asked.

"No, man."

"Then, why has he been hanging around?" I was warm. I could see the sweat breaking out on Uncle Mickey's brow.

"Look. I might have bought a few used cars from him, and he did a little repo work, just under the table, you know. No one suspects an old fart like that is going to jack their car. But I don't need no cops down here, you know what I'm saying? We can work something out."

"Fine. Let's work something out," I offered. "Tell me when and where I can find DeChooch, and I won't have your lot put under surveillance."

"Surveillance?" he choked. "No, no. Be cool. I'm cooperatin'."

"So, start cooperating," I told him.

"He just left, like, a couple hours ago."

"What was he driving?"

"Oh, man," he said, dancing in place like he had the shits.

"Or, we could just do this here," I said. Leaning through the open window of my car, I grabbed the CB mic.

"No! No! He's down at the old Jackson Pipe Factory, down at Jackson and Stark. Jackson and Stark," he panted.

"Right now?" I asked.

"Yeah, sure. I think so. I mean, that's where he was going when he left here."

"He's been staying there?" I asked, trying to clarify.

"No, don't know where he's staying nights. But, he brought in this white car tonight, wanted me to buy it, and I said no. Not just no, but hell no. I've been seeing it around, down at the pipe factory, and I wasn't going to touch it."

"Why's that?" I asked.

"Nothing good goes down in the pipe factory," Mickey said. "People get dead in places like that. And if I thinks a car might be involved in a murder or worse, I don't touch it. You know?"

"So, you told DeChooch you'd seen this white car at the pipe factory, and he just took off to check it out?"

"Yeah. I told him not to go down there. But he's crazy," Mickey said, circling his temple slowly with his index finger and making crazy eyes.

"No kidding. Tell me something I don't know." I slid into the front seat and closed the door.

"How long has that white car been down at the pipe factory?" I asked.

"On and off for the last couple weeks. I've seen it when I've been out on test drives."

I gave a little salute, turned the motor over, and turned around. I drove further down Stark to Jackson. The pipe factory parking lot was pitch black, filthy dirty, and the place just stank. It literally stank, and I mean bad. I didn't see any cars, but there was a large sliding door that was unchained and hanging open several feet. It would be easy to drive a car in there to hide it.

My new car was whisper quiet. I let it idle across the lot, gliding up to the open door. I took a look inside as I rolled past the opening, and I could see the white Corolla in there, along with another car. It was too dark to make it out.

DeChooch was in there. I was sure of it. At this point, I would normally call Joe. But he was probably out of it, passed out on pain meds by now. I thought about calling that Ranger fella. But that was Joe's competition. Sure, he could get the job done, but that wasn't the way I wanted to handle it.

Before I could rationalize any further, a new Dodge Charger came racing out of the factory and across the parking lot. It was a hot car, shiny, black, and looked brand new. And it was probably also a hot car, meaning stolen. I couldn't tell if DeChooch was driving, but I suspected he was from the way he plowed through the security fence like he didn't see it and then bounced off the curb. So much for shiny and new. That alone was a crime.

I considered tearing after him, but I suspected I was sitting on a crime scene, and the clues might be more important than chasing a blind man. Not to mention, it was certain to be safer.

I called it in to Gazarra. He was off duty, but he said he'd call it in as an anonymous tip, but not to expect any patrol cars to show up on Stark Street until something solid came in. He would put out an alert on the Charger.

I thought back to the way Steph and Joe handled that Gaspick kidnapping. She was developing a team. I liked that idea. Who should I call to help me take down an 80 year old geezer, and find out what was going on in that old factory?

I hated to say it, but my first thought was Coglin and that bird that had saved us from the bear down by the river. But that lead me to Edna, and I didn't want her along. I thought about Mr. Kleinschmidt. He had an M-16, and he wasn't afraid to use it. And he was too old to do hard time. What the hell, I thought. I gave him a call.

Thirty minutes later, Mr. Kleinschmidt's Lincoln Town Car pulled into the lot and parked beside me. He hadn't come alone. Mr. Landowsky climbed out of the passenger seat. He was 84 with his pants pulled up to his arm pits.

"The cavalry has arrived," Mr. Kleinschmidt announced. He had his M-16 slung over his shoulder by the strap.

I was about to start explaining the situation and developing a game plan, when the back doors of the Town Car opened, and Mrs. Karwatt and Mrs. Bestler scrambled out.

"What are you doing, bringing ladies to lower Stark?" I asked. "Have you lost your minds?"

"Young man, you watch your manners. Is that any way to talk to your elders?" Mrs. Karwatt scolded me.

Young man? I nearly turned around to look behind me.

"We had to bring them," Mr. Landowsky groaned. "They wouldn't let us borrow the dogs."

"We don't trust you guys to take care of them. You might get them dirty or accidentally shoot them or something," Mrs. Bestler explained, reaching back into the car and pulling out a large, stuffed Rottweiler.

Moments later, I was looking down at a walking, barking Pit Bull on a leash, being controlled by Mrs. Karwatt.

Stephanie had loaned the ladies the once living, now very dead, stuffed, animatronic dogs. Coglin had given them to Steph and Joe as a wedding present. My understanding was that once Carl found and assembled reasonable replacements, Stephanie would take the dogs back. I rolled my eyes, knowing I would be having nightmares of the Pet Cemetery variety again after this.

"Ladies, this is a very dangerous situation," I tried to explain.

"We know. We came packing," Mrs. Karwatt assured him, patting the stiff leather purse that was hanging from her elbow.

"No point trying to talk them out of it," Mr. Kleinschmidt assured me. "Let's check this place out."

Mrs. Bestler lead the way with Mr. Kleinschmidt armed and dangerous at her side. As they approached the door, she made the dog bark and growl impressively. Anyone inside would definitely be fooled while it was dark. In the light, however, the dogs were just plain creepy. The pair went right, and Mrs. Karwatt and Mr. Landowsky went left. I held tight at the door, making sure no one got in or out.

"We have you surrounded! Come out with your hands up," Mr. Kleinschmidt ordered. His aged voice was too strained and pinched to carry the tone of authority he was aiming for. Did I mention, that he had his M-16 in one hand and he was leaning on his cane with the other?

The barking echoed around the empty factory. There were no sounds of running feet or gunfire.

"I think I've found the lights," Mr. Kleinschmidt called out. I heard a clicking noise, but nothing happened. "No electricity," he concluded.

"I've got it," Mr. Landowsky groaned, obviously engaged in some kind of physical maneuver. Moments later a motor started up and the headlights of the Corolla were helping shed some light on the interior of the building. We were definitely looking at a crime scene.

We were looking at the reason for the stink. Four bodies were hanging suspended, handcuffed to heavy chains that were hanging from industrial pulleys on tracks in the ceiling girders. A rusty old pipe covered in blood was nearby, clearly the murder weapon after being used as an instrument of torture. The arms, legs, and ribs were visibly broken. Broken knee-caps for sure. And for heavy men like this to be hanging from broken arms, the pain would be unbearable, especially once the swelling started. And if they were spun or swung back and forth. My stomach heaved a little. These guys talked. No doubt about it.

We all stared in shocked silence.

The first guy was stocky, with a barbershop-quartet look, mostly owing to the handlebar mustache. The second guy, looked like he'd been beaten in the face. His jaw was huge and had definitely been broken. The third guy was so skinny his pants were around his knees. There were so many bullet holes in him, he looked like Swiss cheese. And the fourth guy was a little pudgy. He didn't look like he ran with the same crowd as the rest. He was wearing a suit. His patent leather shoes were lying on the ground beneath him. There was a lingering stench of cologne mixing with the blood and sweat. He was positioned facing the other three. And I could swear, every once in a while, he twitched.

Mrs. Bestler accidentally squeezed the remote and her Rottweiler began barking ferociously, making us all jump three feet, including the guy in the suit. We all screamed, including the guy in the suit.

"It's alive!" Mr. Landowsky cried.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" I yelled, shoving the barrel of the M-16 away as Mr. Kleinschmidt started to panic. "I'm calling the cops!"


	28. Dead Meating of the Minds

Frank's Point of View

Costanza and Big Dog arrived first, followed by Tom Bell and two ambulances, once the first two confirmed dead bodies and a medical emergency at the scene. Guess they couldn't take my word for it. They had "procedures". Typical.

The cavalry had climbed back into Mr. Kleinschmidt's town car and headed home. The ladies weren't so keen on the adventure once they saw the bodies. And Mr. Kleinschmidt wanted to be sure he wasn't deprived of his M-16.

Tom Bell was grumbling as he waited for the medical examiner's photographer to finish taking pictures of the mustache and the bean pole.

"Why the hell does this stuff always have to happen in the middle of the night," Bell complained.

I had taken some flash photography with my cell phone right away, so I forwarded the pictures to Bell. This was fortunate because it turned out the big guy with the broken jaw wasn't dead either. When the ambulance arrived, they determined that he still had a faint pulse. They took him and the chubby guy down immediately, so they missed out on the professional photo shoot. The Jaw was a few pints low on blood, so they were pumping him full of plasma. The chubby guy was crying like a baby.

Bell was leaning over the big guy when he finally opened his eyes.

"Do you know where you are?" Bell asked.

"I'm not dead?" he groaned.

"Not yet," Bell told him, not sounding very sympathetic. "How did you end up hanging in a warehouse like a side of beef?"

"DeChooch," he groaned.

"You telling me an old man strung up a big guy like you?"

"Shot us first," he explained.

"Why'd he do that?" Bell asked, not sounding like he really cared right now. He just wanted to climb back in bed.

"We were hired to kill him."

The EMT was cutting the man's shirt off. There were definitely a few bullet holes in him.

"Who hired you?" Bell asked, trying to speed this interrogation along.

"Sy Bernstein. The attorney."

"Former attorney," Bell corrected.

The muscle was gasping for air now, so the EMT's put him on oxygen.

"Hey, Bell. Isn't this skinny guy Ryan Perin?" Costanza called over.

Bell turned to look. "What the hell happened to him?" he asked.

"Drugs," Big Dog answered. "Lots and lots of drugs, from the looks of it."

"And bullets," Costanza added. "Lots and lots of bullets."

"DeChooch kill him too?" Bell asked the muscle bound moron.

"Yeah."

"Why?" Bell was losing patience.

"We need to take him to the hospital now," the EMT interrupted.

"This is your last chance to explain to me how you died," Bell told him.

The guys eyes got wide. I wasn't sure Bell was lying. He looked bad. I wouldn't want to be headed to a hospital looking that bad. If the bullet wounds didn't kill him, the doctors surely would.

"We were paid by Sy Bernstein to push a car off the embankment at the Ferry Street Bridge at 10:00 pm last Monday night. We did that. But DeChooch wasn't in the car. We didn't know we were after DeChooch. We don't ask questions. We hit the car. But that wasn't good enough, so we were supposed to try again. The second time, we were supposed to mug DeChooch when he left the bar."

"What bar?"

"Andy's Bar and Grill." It was on Stark, just up the road. Convenient.

"And that went wrong, too, I take it," Bell concluded.

"DeChooch was carrying an SMG. He sprayed us. He forced us to march to his car and get in the trunk with the little guy. He was already dead."

"Then what?"

"We drove around. He got out. We tried to get out. We got the trunk unlatched, but couldn't get the lid up."

Bell looked over at me, one eyebrow raised. I shrugged.

"DeChooch came back. Made us get into the trunk of another car. He made me move the dead guy."

"Describe the car," Bell demanded.

"Old white Toyota, rusted, with a bad exhaust leak."

"That explains a lot," Bell said.

"We drove. I wasn't able to stay awake anymore. I woke up in this warehouse. We were all hanging from handcuffs. DeChooch was screaming at the fat guy to watch. The fat guy was drooling and looked crazy. DeChooch started beating my partner with a metal pipe, but he was already dead. Then he got really pissed. I mean crazy pissed. He was ranting about people always dying before he could kill them."

Bell and I exchanged a smile, thinking of Loretta Ricci and the ill-timed heart attack that started it all.

"What was DeChooch saying to the fat guy?"

"He wanted some code. An access code or account code. He kept saying he wanted the money. He was asking if the fat guy gave it up to Bernstein. He told him Bernstein was dead too, and showed him the car, and a wallet, and some other papers."

"What did the fat guy say?"

"Nothing. He was just out of it."

"Did he give DeChooch the code?"

"I don't know," he groaned. "I doubt it."

"Go on," Bell prompted.

"Then he started undressing the skinny guy. The fat guy was making gurgling sounds. Then he broke my kneecaps, and I passed out. Then you guys got here."

"Well, that's a pretty exciting story," Bell said, unconvinced. "It still doesn't clue me in on what you have to do with Judge O'Brien, here."

"That fat guy is a judge?" he asked, shocked.

"Judge O'Brien, who has been missing for nearly two weeks."

"I don't know anything about that," he swore.

"Get him out of here," Bell said, ending the interview with a waive at the EMT's.

Bell, Costanza, Big Dog and I gathered in a huddle to discuss the situation.

"The Judge is incoherent," Costanza said. "He's probably got heat stroke. There was a gallon jug of water with a little hole sitting on a rafter above him. The tall ladder is over there." He pointed. We nodded.

"So, he had water," Bell agreed.

"He probably wasn't left hanging the whole time, or there'd be a big pile of mess below him. But he was unable to escape the cuffs and chains," Big Dog added.

"No electricity, no air conditioning. This place was like an oven during the day, and there were probably dogs and rodents sniffing around at night," Bell said.

"The story we just heard supports Joe's theory," I said to Bell. "Sy had motive. O'Brien ended his career. He saw his opportunity when O'Brien sentenced DeChooch. He robbed a few places, raised the cash to buy Perin's cooperation, and got DeChooch out. Then he kidnapped the Judge. He made sure DeChooch was seen around town. Then he tried to have him eliminated at the meeting at the Ferry Street Bridge."

Bell nodded. "DeChooch probably went to Perin to re-schedule the meeting, knowing he'd been set up. When DeChooch met with Perin again to get the time and place, he filled Perin full of holes. He went to the meet prepared, and filled these two idiots full of holes too. Then he went after the source. Bernstein."

"Perin probably gave Bernstein up while he was dying," I figured. "DeChooch is a bumbler, sure, but he's no fool when it comes to the complexities of human nature, particularly the criminal nature,"

"Somewhere in this story, there's money. Whose money?" Bell wondered.

"Sounds like the Judge's money," I said. "Joe knew the Judge was dirty. Sy was an informant."

Bell nodded. "So, Sy was after more than revenge. He was going after the Judge's retirement fund."

"Greedy to the end," I said.

"But how did DeChooch figure that out? How did he find O'Brien if he shot Sy Bernstein in cold blood?" Costanza argued.

"Uncle Mickey unknowingly pointed him in the right direction," I explained. "Uncle Mickey had seen the Corolla down here off and on for the past two weeks. Sy kept the Judge here the whole time, along with his car, that fancy new black Charger. When DeChooch searched Sy's pockets for his car keys and wallet, he may have found the other papers the goon mentioned. Something tipped him off about the Judge's money."

"The question is, did O'Brien give either Sy or DeChooch what he needed?"

Bell shrugged.

"No," I said. "The only reason he's still alive is that he didn't talk."

"We've got an APB out on the Charger. It'll be hard for DeChooch to give up a sweet ride like that. We'll find him," Big Dog said.

The meeting broke. I got in my cab and drove home with the windows down, trying to clear the stench out of my nose. I couldn't even enjoy my new car smell right now.

I didn't blame DeChooch for everything that he did. He got set up. These guys were trying to kill him. If it were me, I'd have shot them too. I'm not sure about DeChooch and O'Brien, though. DeChooch probably deserved some jail time. O'Brien was dirty. I crossed myself, deciding to give that one to the Big Guy Upstairs to sort out. My conscience was clear. I was going to sleep peacefully tonight, as long as I didn't dream about those damn dogs.

If Edna married Coglin, she'd move out of my house. That was on the plus column. On the negative side, he would become my father-in-law, and there would be no hope of escape from either of them. I crossed myself again, and gave that situation over to the Big Guy too.

"God help me," I prayed as I pulled into my driveway. "And thank you for keeping us all safe tonight."


	29. Saturday Morning Cartoons

Stephanie's Point of View

Joe was still sleeping when I crawled out of bed at 7:30 to answer my cell phone.

"Stephanie, are you up yet?" It was Grandma.

"I am now. What's up?" I yawned, putting on a robe and looking around for Bob's leash.

"Your dad was out late last night looking for Choochie," she said.

My heart stuttered in my chest. "What?" I was wide awake now. Bob was dancing around, eager to get out. I tried to get the clip on his collar but my hands were starting to shake. "What happened? Is he okay?"

"Sure, everything's fine. He discovered some dead bodies, though, in that old pipe factory down on Stark."

"What?" I nearly dropped the phone. I gave up trying to get Bob on the leash and paid attention to Grandma.

"Yeah. Looks like Choochie didn't just kill Sy Bernstein. First he shot up Ryan Perin like he was a tin target in a shooting gallery. Sy hired a couple goons to kill Choochie, but he found out, shot them too, and stuffed them in the trunk of his car. They weren't dead though."

Bob started barking and tugging on the hem of my robe.

Grandma was still talking. "Then they ended up getting hung up and tortured at the pipe factory. Choochie was trying to get Jack O'Brien to give up the pass code to his ill-gotten booty. I guess Jack was stark raving mad by that time. Boy, I wish Carl and I had been there. I'll bet it was exciting."

I'd been there and done that before, and exciting wasn't the word that came to mind. Nausea pretty much summed it up for me.

Bob was pushing the backs of my knees with is cold dog nose, trying to get me to the door. He really couldn't wait any longer. "All right!," I yelled at Bob. I opened the front door and just let him out. He rushed out the door. I was shutting it when I heard a big splash.

"What was that?" Grandma asked.

I stood in the doorway, looking at Bob paddling to shore. I had forgotten that we weren't anchored at the marina. Crap.

"Bob just went for a swim," I told her, exasperated.

"Carl and I are going down to McDonald's to have breakfast. We're meeting up with Sol Kleinschmidt, Myron Landowsky, Opal Karwatt and Erma Bestler. They were there with your dad at the pipe factory," she continued. "I'm going to get the whole scoop, right from the source."

"I thought you got the whole scoop from dad," I said.

"Nah. What I got came from your mother, and you know what a filter she's got between her ears. I want the unvarnished truth," Grandma insisted.

"Do you need a ride to the funeral?" I asked.

"No, Carl will take me. We'll see you there."

"Okay, I'll see you there," I said, disconnecting.

I felt the houseboat shift a little, and there was a scratching at the front door. I opened it, and Bob rushed in and shook river water all over. Perfect. Just perfect. I wiped the dirty water from my face with my sleeve, and looked up just in time to see Joe standing in the doorway to the bedroom.

He spit some river water out of his mouth and ran his hands through his wet hair. "What in the hell is going on around here?" he growled. The pain meds must have been wearing off.

"Bob had to go out," I explained.

"Out where?" he asked, eyeing the leash in my hand.

I just shrugged. He shook his head and shuffled towards the bathroom. I got a towel and tried to dry Bob, then let him out on the back deck to dry while he ate his breakfast.

I started coffee and made some toast. Minutes later, Joe shuffled back towards the bedroom. I made him a plate, poured him a cup of coffee, and put his pain meds on the edge of the plate.

I got a small smile as he saw me entering with his breakfast-in-bed.

"Hungry, or just hurting?" I asked.

"Ugh," was all he could manage as he tried to sit up against the headboard. He downed the meds first. That answered that question.

I filled him in on Grandma's phone call.

Joe reached over to the bedside table for his phone and checked for messages. "Gazarra says a warrant has been issued for DeChooch's arrest. They don't have him yet. He says your dad gave an official statement that he's part of our team, and he was working the case, so you and I are going to get credit for finding O'Brien. It's payday, Cupcake." He grinned at me. His voice wasn't sounding all that reassuring. He was in pain, and he was worried about DeChooch. We didn't know what his plans were or if they included killing us for getting in his way.

"Yay," I said sarcastically with a little frown, not feeling that excited right now.

He groaned a little in agreement. "Can you help me change these bandages?" he asked.

I grimaced. They were oozing and looked icky. It's not that I don't love Joe, but icky is not something I handle well.

"Never mind," he said. "You're turning green, Cupcake."

"Sorry," I said, trying to give him a little smile.

"It's fine. I'll call mom," he said.

All the hackles rose on the back of my neck. "What?"

"We'll pull up to a dock, and I'll call my Mom to come change the bandages," he said.

"You're mom's not a nurse," I said.

"She's a mom," he said, like the two nouns were interchangeable.

"I'm your wife," I reminded him. And I dang sure wasn't going to have his mother giving me the death glare when she saw the damage inflicted on her son while he was on the job with me. She was still pissed about the time I ran him over with dad's Buick.

"You're green," he reminded me.

"I'll handle it," I insisted, getting up to find the bag full of bandages and supplies that the hospital sent home with us.

Joe tried to talk me through it, but the bandages were sticking to the stitches where there had been seeping. We ended up in the shower trying to soak the bandages off. I gently washed the wounds with soap and water, and then patted him dry. He lay back in bed while I put ointment and new bandages on him. By the time I got finished, the drugs had kicked in, and Joe was asleep again.

My phone was ringing at 8:30. It was Lula.

"Girlfriend, what's this I'm hearing about the Judge being rescued by your old man?"

"I guess it's true." I told her what Grandma had told me.

"Holy cow. I never pictured your dad doing something cool like that. Every time I've seen your dad, he was hunched over a plate full of meat and potatoes or watching the game on TV. What the heck was he thinking, going after DeChooch alone like that?"

"I guess he wasn't alone. He had Mr. Kleinschmidt and Mr. Landowsky with him, and Mrs. Karwatt and Mrs. Bestler."

"Say what?" Lula exclaimed. "Old Mrs. Bestler, the elevator operator? She can't even remember where she lives half the time. What the heck kind of back up is that?"

The same kind of back up I usually get, I thought to myself.

"Anyway, it all ended okay. DeChooch got away, but now Joe and I can collect on the contract with Mrs. O'Brien."

"Well, that's something, anyway," Lula agreed. "You taking your granny to the funeral?"

"No, she's going with Carl."

"Good. See, I was thinking. Wouldn't it be good to have that whole treasure thing figured out before the funeral? I mean, just in case Olmer's spirit is still restless, what with being murdered and all. Maybe if we found the treasure and figured out who killed him, he could rest in peace."

"You mean, right now?"

"Well, yeah. The funeral is at one. That gives us four hours."

OK, I know it sounded crazy. First of all, I wasn't one to believe in restless spirits roaming around seeking vengeance. Even if I was, the person responsible for Solomon Olmer's death, if it was murder, was probably on the other side with him by now. And finally, I didn't even know what I was wearing to the funeral, let alone how I was going to get Joe dressed and out the door.

On the other hand, I could clearly hear the voice of Scrooge McDuck echoing in the back of my mind. He was pacing back and forth in his plaid kilt, his pince-nez glasses perched on the end of his beak. His Scottish accent was crisp and lilting as he argued, "What the heck else would be keeping a spirit from rest? We need to rescue that boy's tortured spirit. And more importantly, we need to rescue that treasure!"

"We don't have time," I said into the phone to Lula, even though I was really talking to Scrooge McDuck.

"Sure we do," Lula and Scrooge answered in unison. "Time's a'waistin'.

My gears seized up all of a sudden. I never told Lula about the treasure.

"Lula, how do you know about the treasure?" I asked, my blood running cold. If Lula knew, the whole Berg probably knew. And if the Berg knew, time really was a'waistin'.

"Joyce Barnhardt has been following you around. She says you found a treasure map on the body, and you've been seen with a $5,000 metal detector you bought from Bernie Kuntz and a hand full of gold coins."

"Joyce actually said $5,000 and Gold coins?" I asked breathlessly. "You heard this from Joyce herself?"

"Yeah, she came into the studio. She was trying to entice Melvin into calling her if you showed up so she could tail you to the treasure. She used her wicked wiles to get information from Bernie and Emilio too."

Ick. I did a mental grimace. Joyce had been doing a lot of homework.

"We didn't try to pawn any gold coins at Emilio's," I assured her. I wasn't fibbing. We didn't try to pawn them.

"So, there's no treasure?" Lula asked, sounding deflated and disappointed.

"What are you doing?" Scrooge demanded. "We need backup!" He was hopping up and down, swinging his fists. "Let's go get that gold!"

I shook my head trying to clear it.

"Meet me at McDonald's I told her."

Ten minutes later, I was dressed in my usual jeans and a t-shirt. I got in my jeep and took off up-river. By the time I pulled into the McDonald's parking lot, Lula was inside talking to Grandma and the her gang of octogenarians.

"Hey," I said, giving them a little finger waive.

"Are you really going after the treasure?" Grandma wanted to know.

"Shhhh!" I looked around, hoping no one was paying attention. "Maybe," I whispered.

"I figured you get over your fright and be back at it before long," Carl said. "I've got just the thing to help us." He handed me a gym bag.

"Us?" I hesitated. Probably I shouldn't open the bag inside a crowded restaurant. It might start another chain reaction of vomiting. I set the bag on a nearby table and slowly unzipped it, peeking inside. I swallowed hard as I quickly zipped it back up and did a little freak-out dance.

"Rats?" I gasped. "It's a bag full of rats!" I hissed.

"Yep," Carl beamed proudly. "Those are my Pied Piper Spy-cams."

"Rats?" I asked, turning to Grandma.

"Yeah, a dozen. They each have a number on them. You press the number on the remote, and you can control them, just like a remote control car. And you can see what they see. You send them down the tunnel, and the multi-screen display can help you keep an eye on your bear family. They won't care if there's a rat down there. They're used to rats. It's people they don't like."

I was thinking these rats probably didn't smell like rats anymore, but what do I know?

"Good thinking," Lula said, giving Carl a pat on the back.

"There might be snow on the roof, but there's no grass growing here," he said.

"I'll say," Lula greed.

"Uh, yeah," I said, trying to smile.

"My Carl's got a gizmo for just about everything," Grandma beamed.

"Mrs. Miller's Pitt Bull isn't looking too good these days," Mrs. Karwatt told me. "When he goes, Carl's going to liberate him for me."

"You're going to steal Mrs. Miller's dog?" I asked, shocked at the eager look on Mrs. Karwatt's face.

"He'll be dead," she explained. "She'll never know."

"Eww!" I grimaced. "Won't someone recognize him?"

"Carl's going to dye the hair," Grandma said. "Isn't he clever?"

"Clever's not the word for it," Lula said, giving me a creeped out look.

"No kidding," I said. "OK, well, we're off then. Thanks for the...cameras," I said, gingerly taking the bag by the straps, careful not to touch the actual rat bodies. I couldn't help the full body shiver that was surely visible. I thought I could hear Carl laughing as I swung through the door.

"Wait!" Grandma said, jumping up from her seat. "We're coming with you!"

"Of course you are," I groaned.


	30. X Marks the Spot

Mr. Kleinschmidt and crew were following us. Lula and I were in the back of Big Blue. Carl was driving, with Grandma riding shotgun.

We approached the hole in the ground. The caution tape was still wrapped around the base of nearby trees, blowing in the wind, having been mostly destroyed by Joe and the bear.

We listened, but didn't hear anything. Carl was on the phone with Mr. Kleinschmidt.

"Stay back until we get an eye on the enemy," Carl advised.

I rolled my eyes.

"OK, give me the bag," Carl said to me. I handed it over the seat to him.

Carl got out and eased up to the hole. He took a look with a flashlight. Then he took out a rat, turned it on, tested the signal, and then tossed it into the hole towards the opening of the larger tunnel.

"Doesn't it need to be placed in the tunnel?" I asked Grandma.

"Nah. The rats can flip from their backs onto their feet. Then he can drive them down the tunnel."

I watched as Carl was working the buttons on the controller. The screen was huge, about a foot wide and better than half a foot tall.

"Where did he get that controller?" I asked.

"It came with the race cars," Grandma said. "He got it off E-Bay."

"So, it's actually a race car set, that he stuck rat bodies onto?"

"Yep. The cars included cameras. He got a great deal. Pretty smart," Grandma beamed. "He started looking after you asked for his help with this bear. He already had the rats in the freezer."

"How can Carl afford all this just to help me?" I asked, feeling a little guilt creeping in.

"Don't worry. Carl's doing great. He put an ad on the NRA website, and the orders for his Fowl Foliage brand Artificial Christmas Trees are pouring in. He's already taking orders for next year. And he's getting requests to expand into a full line. He's going to include matching wreaths and decorated boughs. A box set will be $500. He's calling it the Merry Flocking Christmas line. It's being blogged about all over the Internet. He gave an interview to a fishing magazine and even got a call from a writer for Nascar. They are always needing some kind of interest story for their magazines in the down season."

I was thinking this was probably the red-neck gag-gift of the year, like the talking fish. Carl had better cash in quick.

Carl had tossed the whole lot into the tunnel by now. We watched as he tried to find a good position to receive a clear picture as they disappeared deeper into the tunnel. We rolled the windows down and were relieved when Carl finally gave us the thumbs up.

"They're asleep," Carl said, showing me a screen labeled #5. The momma bear was sleeping in the darkness of the tunnel, with two cubs resting on her back.

"Where is that?" I asked.

"Down about 200 feet, then another 300 feet going right, towards the water."

"Did you happen to see Joe's gun?" I asked.

Carl pushed a button, and we were looking at camera #3. "Right there, at the entrance to the side tunnel."

"I think it's going to have to stay there," I said, feeling my knees knocking. "I'm not going down there."

"She'd smell you down there," Carl agreed. "But don't worry. I have a plan.

"What kind of plan."

Carl hit a button, and the screen showed #12. This view showed a line of rats all lined up down the center of the tunnel, right between the track rails.

"What are you going to do?" I asked. "You aren't going to hurt her, are you?"

"No. They can get out, see." Carl showed me #1. He panned and I could see that #1 had passed the bears and progressed to the outlet of the tunnel at the river. The bears had clearly been using that entrance.

Then he panned back to #12. "Here we go," he said.

"Wait for me," Grandma whispered, coming up behind us. Lula crowded in behind her, and we all watched as Carl pressed a button with a red sticky label on it.

Down in the tunnel the first rat started to swell. Then he sort of split open, and a large balloon started filling the space.

"How is that happening?" I asked. There was no gas canister on the rats. I was sure of it.

"It's an acid-base reaction. You probably did this in elementary school for a science experiment with vinegar and baking soda."

"What are you using?" Lula wanted to know.

"Trade secret. You have to know what you're doing, of you could get hurt."

"He used a little explosion to break the glass container, allowing the chemicals to mix, just like in the spy movies," Grandma said, beaming at Carl.

"Yeah, it worked," he said, beaming back at Grandma.

The balloon was swelling steadily, silently, filling the tunnel floor to ceiling. Then he hit the button for #11 and hit the red button again. The process repeated.

"You're sealing the tunnel so she won't hear or smell us," I realized.

"Exactly."

"And later the balloons will go flat, and she'll have access to the tunnel again."

"No harm done," he said.

"Carl, I'm speechless," I admitted. "Thank you so much for all you've done to help us." I meant every word.

"Don't thank me yet. We have a long way to go," Carl said, turning the monitor to the multiple view setting. He waived the all clear to Mr. Kleinschmidt.

Once we were all gathered around the hold, Carl began giving out assignments. Mrs. Bestler and Mrs. Karwatt were on monitor duty. If the bears woke up, they were to tell Carl.

Carl was up in the tree re-loading the Bird's Eye View. Apparently, it was weatherproof and had a battery saving mode. I just needed a new battery in the controller in my purse and we were in business. Carl gave the smart phone controller to Grandma since she had the most experience with it.

Mr. Kleinschmidt was making some measurements, pacing back and forth from the hole to the hollow tree. It was only about twenty feet.

"What do you think?" I asked Mr. Kleinschmidt.

"It would be helpful if we knew what portion of the cement floor we need to remove. I have been studying the calculations, but I'm no mathematical wiz. Still, I would have thought Olmer would have marked the spot somehow. He was going to have to take up the concrete himself. Maybe he just paced it off from the tree, but I can't make it fit."

Mr. Landowsky was kneeling along the river bank with a gardening trowel. He was scraping away some of the dirt that had washed over the brick retaining wall where the little tunnel met the river.

"I think I've got something," he called.

Mr. Kleinschmidt and I walked over to have a look.

"There's a narrow slot between the bricks, all stained with rust," he said, showing us by slipping the flat trowel down into the space.

I looked to Mr. Kleinschmidt for an explanation.

"Olmer must have had this retaining wall built as part of the tunnel construction in the 20's. He always intended to flood this tunnel. He waited until high tide, then he slid an iron plate into this groove, and closed off the mouth of the tunnel. No one would see it. It would be dark and the tunnel would be under water. You might be able to see if from the river at low tide. He would have been sure to show the flooded tunnel from the inside, and advised against approach from the outside, since it would appear to be useless."

"That's how he got the go-ahead to build the secondary tunnel the bears are using. That's why funding got cut to complete this tunnel," I realized.

"Yes. It's possible the alternate tunnel was completed using Olmer's plans following his death," Mr. Kleinschmidt suggested.

"So, you think the gangsters weren't happy with this apparent blunder and killed him?"

"It's possible," Mr. Kleinschmidt said with a shrug.

"No, it isn't. The water would have settled. It would have been still water. And just plain old river water, not muddy water, like Dave Nelson said covered the body at the time of death. And how did the metal slide get removed? Someone had to have removed it."

"No, it just rusted away," Mr. Landowsky said, leaning gingerly over the edge of the bricks. "See?" He scraped his trowel around the opening of the bricks, and brought it back up covered in brittle black flakes. "Ninety some years in this water was more than enough time to rust away the metal."

"Then, what about the metal in the tree? Wouldn't that have rusted too? It's been here since 1776. What's holding up all the weight that's in the tree trunk? And why didn't it rot away too?"

"Most of the time, the trunk of this tree has been underground and underwater. Without air, bacteria can't grow. Wood that remains submerged doesn't rot. And if the base really is full of sand, that won't have rotted either," Mr. Kleinschmidt answered.

As he spoke, I saw a light bulb going off in Mr. Kleinschmidt's head.

"What?" I asked.

"The mast. They used the ship's mast as the lever," Mr. Kleinschmidt said excitedly. "And if it was under water the whole time, Johann's machine may still work!"

"And that's why the six men couldn't get the treasure out during the winter," I added. "The entire contraption was frozen solid."

"It isn't frozen right now. And we might be able to use Olmer's slide contraption here to get the water out of the tunnel again," Mr. Landowsky said. "We can fit a piece of sheet metal down here, and pump the water out, and then we can remove the concrete and see if we can get that treasure up," he said.

I glared a little at Mr. Kleinschmidt. "You weren't supposed to tell anyone," I reminded him.

"What? I'm old. I forgot," he said, smiling at me.

"You did not," I sighed, hands on hips, smirking at him.

"Do you keep secrets from your best friends?" he asked me. I glanced at Lula. I tried.

Doesn't matter now, does it? You need all the help you can get," Mr. Landowsky said.

I took a deep breath. "OK, now what?"

"Now, you all do exactly what I tell you, understand?"

I rolled my eyes nearly into the back of my head. It was Joyce Barnhardt.

I stood slowly and turned to face her. "What are you doing?" I asked, staring down the barrel of a '45.

"I'm getting what's coming to me," she said, with a crazy little laugh. "You think you're so smart, but who's laughing now?"

I glanced over to Grandma, giving her a mental message to shoot Joyce with the tranquilizer dart, but Carl was shaking his head no. The tranquilizer wouldn't work fast enough to prevent Joyce from shooting. DeChooch was old and it didn't take much to throw him off his game. Joyce was young and in shape and she was determined. Grandma looked disappointed, but she pocketed the phone.

"You're coming with me," Joyce ordered, motioning me towards the hole with her gun. "And you too, Fatso," she said, motioning to Lula.

"Say what?" Lula barked. "I know you didn't just call me Fatso."

"Get in," Joyce yelled, chambering a round in her Glock. "Now!"

"Lula, just do it, before someone gets hurt," I told her.

For once, Lula didn't go straight to Rhino-mode. She looked around at the wrinkled faces around us and let he shoulders slump. "Fine," she growled at Joyce.

We didn't have a rope ready, so we had to jump into the watery pit. The water level was down to about a foot. It was low tide.

Joyce tossed down two shovels, and then climbed in after us. She had a large satchel across her shoulders, presumably to carry the loot.

"We can't just dig it up," I tried to explain. "The floor is concrete."

"Just dig," Joyce ordered.

"Where?" I asked.

"Don't play stupid with me," Joyce growled. "Right there," she demanded, pointing her flashlight to the wall where an X was faintly visible in the concrete.

What do you know? X really did mark the spot.

Lula and I started digging into the dirt, tossing it aside, until we reached the concrete floor. Joyce didn't look happy.

"I told you." I leaned on my shovel. "Now what?"

"We need a jackhammer," Lula said. "You got a jackhammer in that bag?"

"You knew the concrete was in the way. How were you planning to get through it?" She demanded.

"I don't know. I wasn't planning on coming out here this morning," I said.

"Yeah, right." Joyce didn't believe me. "Hey, old farts," she called up the hole. "You better figure out how to get me this treasure, right now, or I'm going to start shooting."

"You don't need to. It's thin enough that the lever will break through it," Mr. Kleinschmidt called down. "Olmer was trying to recover the treasure alone. He wasn't going to risk someone hearing him down here with a jack hammer."

"What's he talking about?" Joyce demanded.

"I'm coming down," Mr. Kleinschmidt announced.

"Say what?" Lula exclaimed, as a familiar car motor was heard backing up to the hole.

Mr. Kleinschmidt's feet appeared first. One foot was secured in a loop of rope. Carl was lowering him into the hole using Big Blue. They had tossed the rope over the branch of a tree overhead.

Mr. Kleinschmidt descended and finally called up that he was clear. The car engine ceased. I looked up the dark tunnel, hoping the bears had not heard any of the racket we were making.

"Mrs. Bestler?" I called up.

"All clear," she called back.

I took a deep breath, and looked to Mr. Kleinschmidt.

"You'd better be here to get me my loot. No funny business, old man," Joyce warned him.

"They key to the treasure is over there," Mr. Kleinschmidt told her, pointing to the dead tree trunk. "May I examine it?"

"All of you, stay together," she said, directing us with the barrel of the gun.

The three of us slogged through the mud. Mr. Kleinschmidt began searching the base of the tree with his hands.

"Can we have more light, please?" he asked Joyce.

She approached cautiously, shining her flash light. It caught a seam of thick black metal sticking out at the edges of a gash in the tree trunk. There were hundreds upon hundreds of scrapes and dents and dings all around the base of the tree around the plate."

"Olmer?" I whispered to Mr. Kleinschmidt, indicating the obvious attempt at activating the mechanism. He nodded.

"What is that?" she asked cautiously.

"A metal plate. The kind used to mount a cannon to the deck of a ship." Mr. Kleinschmidt gave me a knowing look. "Cast iron, very thick, very sturdy, treated to prevent rust on the open ocean."

"But after all these years," I said, glancing to the open tunnel where the other metal plate had rusted through.

"Brittle," he agreed, "but inside, probably wedged tight,"

"What are you two talking about?"

"We need an ax of some kind, or a large hammer," Mr. Kleinschmidt told Joyce.

"You hear that? Someone get us some tools," Joyce bellowed up.

There was some discussion up above. The rope was pulled up and let back down with a couple tire irons.

"That's the best you can do?" Joyce called up.

"I left my magic want at home," Grandma yelled at Joyce. "Get happy."

"I'll get happy when I get my treasure," Joyce yelled. "Get cracking, Gramps," Joyce ordered Mr. Kleinschmidt.

I freed the tire irons from the knots in the rope and returned to the tree, standing beside Lula and Mr. Kleinschmidt.

"OK, let's use the shovels to clear this mud so we can get our feet under us. We need to be able to give it a good whack," Mr. Kleinschmidt said.

Lula and I took the shovels and got to work. Mr. Kleinschmidt had stood about as long as he could. He found a ledge to sit down on.

Once we had a clear pathway around the base of the tree, Lula and I each took a tire iron and started whacking the tree along the black line of the iron plate. Each time I hit the tree, the vibrations traveled up the iron and into my arms, rattling my teeth. The tree felt solid.

"What the hell are you doing?" Joyce asked as little pieces of wood and flecks of rusted iron started pelting her.

"Shine the light again," Mr. Kleinschmidt told Joyce. The light revealed that we were making some progress. There was a little notch of metal showing around the edges of the tree. It was like a riveted seam. It was strong, and the metal was holding. "We just want to move that plate a little. That's all we need, just a trickle of sand to get us started," Mr. Kleinschmidt said encouragingly. "Because the plate has become rounded off, you and Lula need to hit it together, encouraging it to move in one direction." He looked meaningfully at me. "One person hitting this plate probably couldn't free it, even with a wedge."

Mr. Kleinschmidt reached out for the flashlight, and held it for us. He was sitting behind the tree. Joyce was on the opposite side from us, edging back towards the river entrance, trying to avoid the shrapnel. Lula and I were pounding on the tree in unison, gasping for air, our arms and backs aching, quickly becoming exhausted.

"Oh, Boy!" Lula panted, leaning heavily against the tree. "I can't swing this iron no more," she gasped. "You want your treasure, you do it." She tossed the tire iron to Joyce.

"Don't be ridiculous," Joyce laughed. "I don't do manual labor." She kicked the iron back to Lula, motioning with the barrel of the gun for Lula to get back to work.

"You may as well shoot me," Lula told her. "I'm having a heart attack here." With that, she grunted and sat down heavily against the tree trunk.

There was a groaning, a deep groaning, followed by a rumbling. Joyce took a few more steps backward, away from the sound. It was coming from the tree trunk. Lula and Mr. Kleinschmidt and I jumped back. We had our backs pressed into the back wall of the tunnel. This wasn't a slow leak. This was a full-on evacuation. All of the weight that had been stored inside the hollow of the dead tree was now bearing down, all at one time, on the reverse lever system buried below.

A sharp crack echoed throughout the tunnel and I was sure Joyce had fired the gun. But instead of being hit with bullets we were hit with little pieces of concrete.

"What the?" Joyce's words were lost as something large was ejected with force through the floor of the tunnel and up through the ceiling, and all the way through the ground.

"Look out!" we could hear Grandma yelling up above. Then there was an almighty wallop as something heavy hit the ground.

"My treasure!" Joyce bellowed, racing for the rope. She used the knots in the rope to shimmy up. I grabbed the flashlight from Mr. Kleinschmidt and raced down the larger tunnel, hearing the roaring of momma bear in the distance. I slid for the gun, gripped it, and raced back down the tunnel. I heard momma bear bounce off the first balloon. It popped, and she roared in surprise.

As I ran, the rats behind me started expanding. Carl was sealing the tunnel behind me at intervals designed to keep the bear busy. There was an ear-splitting siren going off now too. The bear was sure to be retreating from that sound, I thought. It was sure scaring the hell out of me.

I slipped the end of Joe's gun into my pants pocket and leapt for the rope. "Stay behind the tree!" I called to Lula and Mr. Kleinschmidt. They were likely to be missed by the bear if they stayed quiet. They each had a shovel and a tire iron in hand. I climbed as fast as I could, peeking out of the hole.

Joyce was a vision, her red hair flying in the breeze as she sat straddling a large black cannon. The cannon was lying in a crater surrounded by fresh dirt, where it had landed. Joyce was waiving her gun, protecting her prize like a dragon sitting on an egg in a nest. There appeared to be an oversized cannon ball welded over the hole, and presumably the treasure was inside.

Grandma had Joyce in her sights, and everyone was ready this time. Everyone, except Joyce.

"Someone get this thing open!" she shouted, banging on the cannon ball seal with the butt of her gun.

Mrs. Karwatt and Mrs. Bestler were hiding behind Big Blue. Grandma and Carl each stepped behind a tree. And Mr. Landowsky was no where to be seen.

One, I counted. The red dot danced on Joyce's black bustier. "Hey, where did everyone go?" Joyce barked. Two. She looked down and noticed the dot. "What the hell?" Three. Joyce slid off the cannon just as the dart whizzed past.

"You crazy old coots are trying to kill me?" Joyce screamed, opening fire.

There had rarely been a day in my life that I hadn't dreamed about shooting Joyce. But when it came right down to it, I didn't have it in me. Not really. I had Joyce in my sights, but my finger wouldn't pull the trigger. I ducked just in time. Joyce was shooting at me! I heard a loud "ting" as the bullet made contact with Big Blue's rear bumper. Then Joyce was screaming. This time, she was in pain.

I peeked cautiously out of the hole again. Joyce was rolling around on the ground holding her right hand. I saw my chance, and leapt up out of the hole. I covered Joyce with Joe's gun as I picked up Joyce's '45.

"You bitch!" Joyce screamed at me. "You shot me!"

"You shot yourself," I told her, showing her the smoking '45.

"Liar!" she screamed.

"Does that hurt?" Grandma asked Joyce, smiling down at her.

"Of course it hurts, you crazy old bat! I've been shot! Call me a damn ambulance," she ordered.

"Sure. But first, how about something for the pain?" Grandma offered. I counted one, two, three.


	31. ICTHYS (revised)

[Author's Note: Additional material can be found on YouTube by searching "Ron Wyatt - Ark of the Covenant 1999 - Hi Res". Again, please enjoy the story, even if you disagree with the theology.]

Mrs. Karwatt assured me momma bear was high-tailing it down river with the kids in tow. No doubt she was considering moving to a safer neighborhood.

I slid back down the rope to retrieve Lula and Mr. Kleinschmidt.

Carl was pulling Lula back up with Big Blue while Mr. Kleinschmidt and I shined the light down into the hole in the floor of the tunnel.

"Wowser," Mr. Kleinschmidt breathed. "Look at that."

We could clearly see the end of the mast sticking up through the dirt and concrete.

"It would take a lot of digging to find out what else is down there," I said. I shined the light on the wall behind us where X marked the spot.

Mr. Kleinschmidt's finger traced half a figure eight and then a triangle on the other side of the figure eight. "It's not an X," he said. I shined the light on the path of this finger, and looked again.

"It's a fish," I said in awe.

"It's called an Icthys." Mr. Kleinschmidt whispered. It's an ancient Greek acronym. It means 'Jesus Christ, God's Son, Savior'. It is a symbol used by Jesus' followers, just like the Cross of Christ."

I shook my head. "But, Olmer was Jewish."

Mr. Kleinschmidt smiled. "Jews can believe in Jesus too. We are called Messianic Jews."

"So, he was a Christian, not a Jew," I reasoned.

"Messianic Jews and Christians share many beliefs, but they arrive there from very different historical perspectives. While your religious education was focused on the life of Jesus, mine was focused on Moses and Abraham, and their relationship with Jesus."

"Why would Olmer have marked the treasure with a fish?"

"The Icthys was used to represent the miracle of multiplication, when Jesus fed five-thousand people by multiplying five barley loaves and two fish."

"So, if it means multiplication, what does it mean here?"

"It doesn't mean multiplication, it means provision. God will provide for his people. Jesus is God, so he provided for the people as a sign, reminding them that God fed Moses and the Israelites. He made Manna rain down from Heaven every day for 40 years while they were wandering in the wilderness."

"How do you know so much?" I asked. "You're like an encyclopedia."

"You remember what's important to you, young lady," he told me. "My faith is important to me. Maybe more these days, because of my wife's passing. It gives me comfort when I can see proof. Proof gives us hope. Proof strengthens our belief."

"What do you mean proof? How do you know you're not..."

"Fooling myself?"

"Yeah," I admitted.

"You have doubts." This was a statement, not a question.

"It all seems a little to, unbelievable. I mean, feeding five-thousand people with a couple fish? How could he have done that with everyone watching?"

"Too many miracles for your taste? Too much excitement? Too much drama?" he teased. "It wasn't a trick, you know. He was showing his calling card, flashing his ID, displaying his credentials. God created the universe out of nothing. I think he can handle making a few more fish." He laughed. "You make miraculous escapes and find people with crazy luck all the time. It isn't luck, you know. You're not alone out there."

I felt my eyes widen a little at the thought that God was always close by. I usually tried to push those thoughts away. I mean, what about when I was in the shower? What about when I had to use the bathroom? And when I was with Joe? I was better off not believing God was interested in me that much. I tried to squelch the thought.

I smiled. "I know my life is crazy. But that isn't proof of God's existence."

"Why wouldn't it be? You're a child of God, aren't you?"

I swallowed. "Yes," I answered. My mother would kill me if I answered any other way, but I was sort of expecting to be struck by lightning any second.

"That wasn't very convincing," he complained. "You want proof? Then do what you always do. Ask questions, and go after the answers."

"Let's say I don't believe Jonah was swallowed by a whale. I go looking for the truth. Just because I find a plausible scientific explanation on the Internet, how do I know it's the right answer? There are so many answers out there. So many people believe different things after reading the same paragraph," I complained. "Some have to be the wrong answer. And if everyone is sincerely looking and believes they have found the answer, well, I don't see how I can sort that out."

"You have a valid point. But, when you're investigating a murder, don't you come across red herrings?"

"False leads? Sure."

"But, in the end, you figure out what is true and what is not, because you test your hypothesis, right? It just rings true, and you follow where it leads, and you find the answer."

"Sometimes I figure out the clues on my own. Sometimes the solution just gets revealed or we get a confession."

"Confessions aren't always the truth. A false confession can be a red herring. But there are certain criteria that have to be met. You have a dead body. You find cause of death. You look for a suspect with means, motive, and opportunity. When it all comes together, you have proof."

"What are you trying to tell me?" I sensed Mr. Kleinschmidt had a point to make regarding this case. "Seeing is believing? We can't see God."

"God revealed himself to Moses and Abraham. We have their written testimony, and so many others that agree. These testimonies have stood the test of time, and have been proven true, historically. But God is alive. So we look for evidence of him in our own lives. We know what he is like, we know what his purpose is, and we can see what he's done. Where God has means, motive and opportunity, we find our proof."

"You have found some proof," I determined.

"Yes," he said, excitedly. "Remember when I told you that Olmer didn't appear to know where the Ark disappeared to?"

"Yes."

"I was wrong. I've been studying all that you gave me. The news article. The photograph. And I've been studying his obscure references. Solomon Olmer knew exactly where the Ark of the Covenant is. And so did Johann Olmer, I suspect."

"Was, or is?" I asked.

"Is," he clarified. "And, as a Jew, the unexplained disappearance of the Ark was always at the root of my doubts about God. And now, I have my answer," he beamed. "Finding that God not only preserved our most precious heirloom, but that the answer has been in front of us all this time, fills me with a new confidence in God."

My eyes were wide and I couldn't breathe. "Don't tell me it's here," I gasped.

"No," Mr. Kleinschmidt laughed. "Of course not. God had the Ark of the Covenant created for a specific purpose."

"What purpose?" I asked.

"See, this is the historical perspective I'm talking about. You were raised Catholic. To be blunt, your perspective on worship begins and ends with the crucifixion as atonement for sin. For a Jew, it was the covenant with Abraham and the law given to Moses that lead the way to that atonement. The Ark was a crucial part of that equation. True, the covenant with Abraham was fulfilled by Jesus. But historically, we do not see the Ark of the Covenant playing the role it was intended when it was created. God gave the instructions for it's creation to Moses. Why would he bother, if he knew it was going to be lost? It doesn't make any sense. And, I'll be honest. It shook my faith."

"So, you've had doubts too?" I asked, surprised.

"Everyone does, or they're lying," he assured me.

"What is it that you figured out?" I was really interested now.

"God didn't lose the Ark. He intended for it to remain with the Israelites until the Covenant was fulfilled, but the people messed up, a lot. The Ark was taken from the people, but not by foreigners. God made preparations to hide the Ark, to make sure it would be in place for the fulfilling of the Covenant. He did this 800 years before it was needed. He didn't wait till the last minute on this one. That's how special it was."

"Eight hundred years?"

"King Solomon's Temple stood for 400 years, and then 400 years passed until Jesus came," he explained.

"You mean, when God gave Solomon the plans for the temple, and for the fulcrum? It was to hide the Ark?"

"Exactly."

"But, wasn't the Ark part of the religious ceremony? Didn't they just replace it?"

"The Ark wasn't a treasure box, it was the throne of God on earth. He didn't really need one. It was for mankind, so we could have a frame of reference. The law, written by God on stone tablets, was placed inside by Moses. The Ark of the Covenant was also called The Mercy Seat. Kings used to pass judgment from their thrones, like a judge in a court of law. The Ark was kept in a special place called the Holy of Holies. Only the high priest could enter, once a year on the Day of Atonement. He would use his finger to sprinkle seven drops of blood from the sacrifice onto the left side of the Ark, the eastward side. This was for the forgiveness of the sins of the people, while the people were gathered outside, praying. Even then, it was their faith that saved them from their sins, not the ritual itself. The ritual was a representation of what Jesus would do for us. Abraham was counted righteous because of his faith He didn't have the Ark."

"What did they do when they didn't have the Ark anymore?"

"There was nothing they could do. The Holy of Holies was an empty chamber. They sacrificed and prayed for mercy and forgiveness, but the seven drops of blood were no longer sprinkled on the Mercy Seat. Those who believed God were still righteous, because of their faith."

"So, where was the Ark?"

"Here's where it gets messy. The Jews of Jesus time expected the Messiah to be a warrior, descending from Heaven and making Israel the rulers of the world."

"Everybody wants to rule the world," I said, hearing the Tears for Fears song in the back of my head.

"Exactly. But that wasn't how it worked. Jesus was born as a baby, lived as a man, and was murdered for teaching the truth about God. And that also made him well qualified to judge mankind. He's one of us."

"I guess I hadn't thought of that." I considered for a moment. If Jesus had to go to the bathroom with God watching, he understood what it felt like. And since he knew what it felt like to need a little privacy, surely he was looking the other way.

"If Jesus came to die for our sins, and the blood of the sacrifice of atonement was always to be sprinkled on The Mercy Seat, where do you think the Ark should have been at the time his blood was spilled?"

My eyes were wide. "Close by?" I guessed.

"Very close," Mr. Kleinschmidt agreed.

"But, someone would have seen it."

"I think maybe someone did see it," he smiled. "Someone who had watched the entire 800 years unfold."

"Like who?"

"Satan."

I furrowed my eyebrows. "What makes you say that?"

"Satan wanted mankind to be damned. Stamped out. Satan knew he would be defeated if Jesus' sacrifice was successful. He had to get Jesus to change his mind, convince him to destroy his work. He had to prevent Jesus from completing the Covenant with Abraham."

"What does that mean, exactly?"

"The penalty for Adam's sin in the Garden of Eden was death. Mankind, and the entire earth, were cursed. Abraham was searching for God in his heart. He was asking why the curse could not be lifted. He was asking what we all ask. Why is life so unfair? Abraham wanted a child, but he and his wife had grown old. He was going to die without an heir. But God revealed himself and gave Abraham and his wife a son, Isaac. God asked Abraham to sacrifice, Isaac, to prove his devotion to God. Abraham did this, with God sparing Isaac at the last moment. Because God knew Abraham was not going to spare his own child, the son he loved more than his own life, God provided his own son, Jesus, to die instead. Yes, it was thousands of years later, but the promise had been made. That was the Covenant."

"God always intended Jesus' blood to fall onto the Mercy Seat," I gathered. "But how could that happen without anyone seeing it?" I whispered.

Mr. Kleinschmidt turned off the flashlight. "'The earth quaked and the rocks split,'" he quoted. My eyes were struggling to adjust to the darkness. Beams of light were trickling down around us through the loose dirt above.

"The Ark was underground?" I gasped.

"Right below the cross. Right below the very spot where Abraham intended to sacrifice Isaac," he said.

"What?" My eyes were wide again. "It was the same spot?" How did I not know that? Mr. Kleinschmidt was right. There seemed to be some pretty significant gaps in my religious education.

"The significance of this location was not lost on Satan."

"If Satan knew the Ark was there, why didn't he just take it?"

"Satan is not equal with God. He is just a creation, an angel. He is powerful, and he can choose to disobey God, but he doesn't have the power to do anything unless God allows it. God protected the Ark, not allowing Satan to take his throne. So Satan, in his cunning, evil way, did his worst. You are familiar with the Catholic Stations of the Cross, the places where Jesus fell along the way. You know how weak he was, before he was even nailed to the cross."

"Yes," I whispered. I shuddered to think about it. I usually focused on something besides the crucifix and the whipping post when we were in church. There was so many other things to look at that were more pleasant than flagellation, like the image of Jesus as the good shepherd hugging a woolly white sheep. It was much more idyllic than bloody death. Not to mention the overwhelming sense of guilt that was naturally supposed to follow. I tried to avoid the guilt while focusing on Mr. Kleinschmidt's discovery.

"Satan tempted Jesus three times at the beginning of his ministry on earth. Again at the end, Jesus knew that he would have to endure Satan's temptation once more; this time, temptation to resist his own death. Satan himself orchestrated Jesus' torture, ripping away so much of his flesh that he is described as being unrecognizable as a man. Satan's plan was two-fold. He wanted Jesus to refuse death and condemn mankind to destruction. But if that failed, he intended to make sure there would be no blood left to fall down into those cracks in the earth, onto the Mercy Seat hidden below."

I swallowed hard. "I could never understand why he was beaten like that. Being crucified was awful enough. I thought it was his pain, too, that paid for our sins."

"No, I don't think so," Mr. Kleinschmidt said. "It was proof of his love for us, though. God always turns what was meant for evil and uses it for good. Jesus can judge mankind because he understands our fear of pain and death, and he overcame it. But I think it was the pain of separation from the unity of God - separation from being one with God the Father and the Holy Spirit - that was the true torture, for all three of them, and for us. We were made to be in unity with God and with each other. Because we are not, but we long to be, we have a sense that something is wrong. This life is not as is should be. And that is what it really means when we ask, 'why?'. Leaving Heaven to live on this cursed earth with people as clueless as we are was surely 33 years of torture," Mr. Kleinschmidt, giving me a little nudge. I could hear him smiling as he spoke. He was talking about Jesus being tortured, and he was smiling. I narrowed my eyes, trying to see him in the darkness.

"Jesus knew the Ark was there, right?" I asked. He's God. He knows everything, right?

"Of course. It was his plan. But no one else knew the whole plan. Even God's angels surrounding the Ark must have felt helpless. They had not been given permission to intervene. Imagine their frustration, while Satan danced with excitement, tasting victory. God the Father was forced to turn away. Darkness fell over the land at mid-day and Jesus asked in agony, 'Father, why have you forsaken me?' It must have seemed like mankind was lost, as Jesus gasped his last and hung limp on the cross. Death swallowed him up."

I tried to picture it, trying to squelch the guilt at the same time. Why was Mr. Kleinschmidt smiling? He seemed pleased. I didn't understand it.

"We have a written testimony from an eyewitness," he explained. "John was Jesus' best friend and one of his inner circle during the last three years of his life. He stayed with Jesus, witnessing everything. John had even witnessed Jesus' agony in the Garden hours earlier...witnessed him choosing to die for him...for us. His sorrow must have been unbearable."

I knew exactly what it felt like to have a friend offer up his life for mine. I was held prisoner, used as bait by a psycho who wanted Ranger dead. I remembered Joe telling me that Ranger hadn't hesitated when he realized what needed to be done. He didn't show any fear of death. Of course, he expected to be shot, not skinned alive and nailed naked to a pole at a public execution. And his daughter was being held prisoner with me. Maybe he did it for her more than for me, but all the same, when I remembered his lifeless body and the blood...all that blood. I felt a tear running down my face, dripping from my cheek. I could hear it hit the ground in the sudden silence. A warm hand rested gently on my shoulder.

"'And the earth quaked and the rocks split'," Mr. Kleinschmidt quoted again. "Imagine Satan's horror when the soldier's spear entered Jesus' side, piercing the swollen heart, and blood and water splashed down. It may have been only enough, maybe only seven drops, but I know in my heart, they dropped down on the Mercy Seat, just as Jesus always intended, from before the creation of the Earth. Perfect. The veil in the temple was torn in two, and there was no more division between man and God. The Covenant with Abraham and with all mankind had been fulfilled. Everything had changed, in that perfect moment."

"But the world is still a mess," I pointed out.

Mr. Kleinschmidt turned on the flash light. "We were created in their image, the three-fold image of God. We each have a mind, body, and spirit. The universe we live in consists of space, time, and matter. In our understanding of time, events have a beginning, middle, and end. In our understanding of space, we define things as inside, outside, and in between. Matter can be a solid, liquid, or gas. It seems that a triune God, who created a three-dimensional universe, worked out a solution for people living in the past, present, and future. I trust there is a good reason for it. God is quite the architect, after all."

"Wow," I breathed.

"Wow, indeed," Mr. Kleinschmidt echoed, wiping away one of my tears. "Don't cry. Jesus isn't angry with you. He isn't dead, you know. He got up and walked out of the tomb three days later. There's that number three again. He taught for another 40 days on earth, eating and drinking and living with his friends and family, before he returned to Heaven. He went up right before their eyes. More than 500 witnesses saw Jesus after his death. By the next feast day in Jerusalem, three thousand Jews believed in the death, burial, and resurrection. We know it's true, because despite persecution and death, these people refused to deny what they saw. They had more than hope. They knew."

I tried to smile. I tried to focus on how my heart felt the first time I saw Ranger sitting in his office. He was bandaged and still in pain, but he was alive and well. I wasn't going to have to live without him in my life. I was so happy. Ranger healed, and we were back, like we had been before. I wouldn't say the Scrog incident was forgotten, but it wasn't the focus of our relationship. I was going to have to think about that. Maybe I needed to re-evaluate my relationship with God. Ranger wasn't angry with me about Scrog. Maybe God wasn't hell bent on punishing me for causing his crucifixion every time I turned around. That would be a relief.

"Hello down there," Carl called, jiggling the rope. "Anyone need a ride?"

"We'd better get out of here," I told Mr. Kleinschmidt, wiping my eyes and taking the flash light he'd turned back on.

"Yeah, guess so," he said, shuffling toward the rope. I bent down, helping him slip his foot into the rope. "Ready!" he called up. Big Blue roared and up he went.

"Thank you," I whispered, apparently to no one. Oddly, I didn't feel alone.

I looked around one last time. Even if I didn't get to keep the gold, I'd found a treasure no one could ever take away.


	32. So Long, Solomon Olmer (revised)

With shots fired, it was no surprise to see a pair of blue and whites pulling up ten minutes later. I breathed a sigh of relief when Costanza and Big Dog got out of the first car, followed by Eddie.

"When we heard the address, we knew it was you," Eddie told me. "I'd never pass up a chance to see you wrestling a bear."

"No bear today," I told him. "Just Joyce." I handed over Joyce's '45. I didn't mention that I had Joe's gun tucked into my waistband under my shirt.

"Why was Joyce shooting at you this time?" Costanza asked.

"Why do you assume she was shooting at me? There are seven other people here," I pointed out.

"So, she wasn't shooting at you?" he asked, eyebrow raised skeptically.

"Fine. Yes. She was shooting at me," I scowled.

Costanza grinned, holding out his palm to Big Dog who slipped him a twenty.

I rolled my eyes.

"Go ahead, give us your story," he said, pocketing the money.

"Joyce shot at me, hit the bumper on Big Blue, and the ricochet hit her in the hand."

"How many shots fired?" he asked.

"I don't know. A few. Check the gun." I told him.

"Did you shoot back?" Big Dog asked.

"Nope." I wasn't fibbing. I had tried, but I hadn't managed to fired a shot.

Costanza checked the clip, cleared the chamber, and took the gun back to his cop car.

"If she got hit in the hand, why is she unconscious?" Eddie asked, trying to revive Joyce. Joyce was mumbling something about geriatric patients stealing her gold.

"I think she took something for the pain," I explained. Carl and Grandma exchanged sly smiles.

"What gold is she talking about?" Eddie asked.

"Gold?" I asked innocently.

"You didn't tell us why she was shooting at you," Eddie pointed out.

"She's under the impression that I removed a treasure map from the body, so she's been following me all over town trying to catch me with the treasure," I explained.

"Did you remove a treasure map from the body?" Eddie asked.

"NO! There was no map," I insisted. If there was a clue to the treasure, it was the letter, and we found that at the Stacy-Trent, not on the body, I reasoned.

"Then what were you doing down in that hole? You know it's off limits. You're trespassing."

"It's public property," Carl countered. "We have every right to be here."

"Not when the site is surrounded by police tape, you don't," Eddie told him.

"The tape was already broken when we got here. We figured it wasn't a crime scene anymore," I said.

Eddie rolled his eyes at me. "Yeah, right. So, what were you doing down there?"

Carl had recovered ten of the twelve rats. Two had been lost to the bear cubs. And he'd launched all of the tranquilizer darts into the river, including the one that hit Joyce. The bird was in the bag with the rats, along with the rope. All had been safely stashed in the trunk of Big Blue. The only evidence we had been down there was the mud we were wearing.

"I fell in, trying to get a better look," Mr. Kleinschmidt said. The kids had to jump in to get me."

"Yeah," Lula said. "Joyce probably thought we were here to recover the treasure."

"Um, Steph. Why is there a cannon lying in a crater over here?" Big Dog asked, pushing at the cannonball with his toe.

"That's a good question," I told him.

"Any artifact more than a hundred years old that is discovered on public land belongs to the government," Eddie told me. "I'm sorry, Steph, but there are eleven people present. That's a lot of witnesses. You're going to have to make a full disclosure."

"And you're going to have to make it snappy," Grandma said. "We've all got a funeral to get to."

I headed over to the cannon with one of the tire irons, ready to try knocking the cannon ball loose.

"Steph, I can't let you do that," Costanza warned me. Eddie was running after me as I swung at the cannon ball. I had to know if there was gold in there.

Eddie tackled me. "That's a historic artifact!" he yelled, trying to take the iron away from me.

"We should at least get to see what's inside," I insisted.

Eddie and I were rolling around on the ground, grunting and yanking on the tire iron, each of us trying to get the upper hand. After enjoying a good laugh, Costanza and Big Dog pulled me off Eddie.

"We're going to need an official statement that we can actually use," Eddie said, standing and gasping for air, handing the tire iron off to Carl. Carl tossed it in the back of the Buick.

"We were just having a look at the hole where the deceased was found, before going to the funeral," Grandma explained. "Then Joyce showed up and started shooting. And there was a loud rumbling sound, and this cannon just shot straight up out of the ground. It was the darndest thing!"

"Sure, sure," Eddie said. "You weren't digging up treasure," he said sarcastically, eyeing the muddy shovels that Mr. Landowsky was tossing into the back of the Lincoln along with the other tire iron.

The shovels belonged to Joyce, but I wasn't sure it would be helpful to point that out right now. I didn't even know where her car was parked.

"It's true," I told Eddie. "The cannon just shot straight up out of the ground and landed over there."

"Yeah," Grandma chimed in. "The State should consider itself lucky we aren't all pressing charges for endangerment. You tell them that!" she said, snapping her fingers at Eddie. "We're going now. We've got things to do."

"We're too old to be digging up buried treasure." Mr. Kleinschmidt laughed, leaning on his cane as he hobbled towards the driver's side door, mud making a sucking sound in his shoes as he walked. "We'd die of excitement before we could even spend it."

"It was just an accident," Mrs. Karwatt told Eddie.

"Yeah, and we have to be going now, or we'll be late to pay our respects to the deceased," Mrs. Bestler added.

Mrs. Bestler and Mrs. Karwatt may have smiled disarmingly at the officers, but their eyes twinkled mischievously from deep within their wrinkled faces. They shuffled arm in arm, supporting each other, as they walked to the Lincoln. Mr. Kleinschmidt and Mr. Landowsky opened the back doors for the ladies and helped them into the back seat. Then the gentlemen took their seats in front. Mr. Kleinschmidt cranked the motor over and slowly steered the big Town Car across the grass towards the road. I thought I could see Mrs. Bestler and Mrs. Karwatt high-five each other as they pulled away, but I couldn't be sure.

"What about you two?" Eddie asked, eyeing me and Lula.

"That's crazy," Lula said, shaking her head, sweat stains clearly visible on her brown wrap-around top. "What the heck would we be doing digging around in a muddy dark hole where some dead guy was left rotting away? I don't think so." Ignoring the mud caked to the butt of her purple jeans, she climbed in the back of Big Blue.

"Come on," Carl said, walking me back to Big Blue while pulling my shirt back down over Joe's gun. "Edna won't want to be late to the funeral, and neither will you."

"You're going to need to come down to the station to sign an official statement," Eddie called after us.

I waved back at him. We passed the ambulance as we pulled onto the road.

My cell phone was ringing. It was my dad. He had been listening to the police scanner. By the time we pulled into the McDonald's parking lot, another roll of police caution tape had been used to secure the scene. The director of the New Jersey Historical Commission and a representative from the Department of State were on their way to take charge of the site.

It was already a quarter to noon. I said thank you to Carl and Grandma again. Lula took off in her Firebird and I took off in my Jeep. When I got close to the spot where the houseboat was anchored off shore, I closed my eyes, hit the gas, and launched the Jeep onto the water. Switching gears, I motored up to the back dock, parked, and sprinted into the bathroom to shower off the mud and sweat.

Joe was sitting up on the edge of the bed when I came out wearing a towel. He had clean underwear, socks, and an undershirt on. He seemed to be aware of the time, but he was moving in slow motion, and he had no apparent interest in knowing where I'd been. He shaved while I got dressed in my black business suit and white dress shirt with pearl buttons. I put on pearl earrings, and swept my hair up in a messy bun. It was going to have to do. A couple swipes of mascara and a pair of heels, and I was plopping down in the driver's seat of the Camaro, honking for Joe. He walked stiffly towards the car, wearing his black dress slacks and a blue dress shirt. No tie.

We pulled up to Stiva's at five minutes to one. I let Joe out by the door. He walked stiffly to the door, doing a Frankenstein shuffle. I felt bad for not helping him in, but I was stuck with the futile search for a parking space. I knew the street was packed with cars for several blocks in all directions. So, I pulled around through the back alley, pulling up to the back bumper of the hearse. I figured we were going to be part of the procession anyway, and I'd just back up once they brought the casket out.

I locked up and dashed inside, looking for Joe. He was listening to Dave with a blank expression. He was still pretty doped up. Dave had a hand on his back, making sure Joe didn't fall over. Scooter hurried up and took Joe's right arm, guiding him to his reserved seat in the middle of the right front row.

Carl and Grandma were sitting right behind him. This put Grandma in the center of the second row, not on the aisle where she could get up to approach the casket. That seemed a little off, considering the plan.

There was a lot of chatter going on. I noticed the Deluxe Slumber Bed was not on display. Instead, an unvarnished pine box was sitting unadorned on the gurney. No hardware, no flowers, no photo sitting on top.

"What's going on?" I asked Dave.

"Um, slight change of plans," he said gingerly.

"What kind of change?" I asked. "The reconstruction didn't go well?"

"I'm ashamed to admit we didn't take Mr. Olmer's religious preference into consideration in this case," Dave admitted. "We've never had a Jewish customer before. Jewish families contact their own chapels. My friend that ran the DNA called to follow up. When he found out what we were planning with the remains...well, a very unpleasant conversation followed. I had to apologize, a lot."

"We didn't mean any disrespect," Scooter said, joining us. "I guess we assumed the deceased would enjoy our sense of humor after being lost in a dark hole all these years. But, then again, maybe not."

"What's happening with the body, then? What about the service? What about Grandma?" I asked, checking that she was still in her seat.

"We negotiated a compromise," Dave said.

"What kind of compromise?"

"It's time to start," Dave said, looking down at his watch as it beeped quietly one time.

"I'll show you to your seat," Scooter said, offering me his arm.

"What's going on?" I asked, but he shooshed me, handing me off to Joe.

Dave appeared on the platform moments later to welcome all the guests. There was a full house. I could see that the cameras were turned on, broadcasting into the two overflow rooms.

"Thank you for coming today as we lay Mr. Solomon Olmer to rest. It is our desire that his soul should find peace and that his bones should be returned to the earth with all respect and dignity. I know he would appreciate your prayers and your understanding as we proceed with the service today.

"The traditional Kosher pine casket was generously provided by The Menorah Society. A closed casket is required by Jewish law. Because the deceased is in a very vulnerable state, it is considered disrespectful to look on the body. Mr. Olmer deserves to be treated with reverence. Therefore, the casket has been sealed, and will remain closed."

The shifting of clothing could be heard as heads swiveled towards Grandma Mazur.

"Got it," Grandma assured Dave, giving him a thumbs-up as Carl gave her shoulders a little squeeze.

Dave smiled his appreciation as he took out a piece of paper and began reading.

"Solomon Olmer was a resident of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, where he was born August 21, 1874. But he has ties to Trenton as well. Solomon was a direct descendant of Johann Olmer, a Hessian soldier captured at the Battle of Trenton. Johann was traded back to the British in exchange for American soldiers, but refused to fight for the British. He escaped, and endured a hard winter alone, in danger of losing his life to both the British and American troops. The following summer, he found refuge in a home in Lancaster. Later, he married into that family. He passed on not only his story, but his religious beliefs to his children, and his children's children.

"Solomon Olmer graduated magna cum laude from the Sibley College of Mechanical Engineering at Cornell in 1894. He studied bridge building under the direction of Robert Thurston, who was instrumental in moving engineering from the shop and apprenticeship training to the classroom. His teaching focused on calculations and theory, allowing engineers to become visionaries rather than merely mechanics.

"It is difficult for us to imagine the world as Solomon Olmer knew it. Two years after Solomon was born, General George Custer was killed by the Sioux at Little Big Horn and Alexander Graham Bell made the first telephone call. Solomon studied his ABC's by candle light. Edison didn't invent the light bulb until five years later in 1879. If he got injured playing ball, he'd have to wait until he turned 21 to get an X-ray, since they weren't discovered until 1895. Solomon graduated college almost 30 years before Wilbur and Orville Wright took flight in 1903. In 1906, New Jersey started installing septic systems to prevent typhoid fever. Henry Ford's Model T wasn't introduced until 1908. The Panama Canal wasn't open for business until 1914. The Empire State Building and the George Washington Bridge weren't completed until 1931, ten years after Solomon passed away."

The lights dimmed, and the photograph from the newspaper clipping was showing on a screen behind Dave.

"Solomon was interviewed in 1918. This is the photo that appeared with the article. When asked why he became interested in engineering, he responded, 'It's in my blood.' The writer describes Mr. Olmer as 'a serious man of few words', but assures us that public safety couldn't be in better hands.

"Solomon was never married. He left no children to carry on his legacy. He has no living relatives. Thanks to the efforts of Joe and Stephanie Morelli, the Trenton Genealogical Society, the Cohen Foundation, and many others who donated their time and resources, Solomon will be laid to rest with his family in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.

"At this time, I will turn the proceedings over to Sol Kleinschmidt, who will conclude this service."

Scooter could be seen giving Mr. Kleinschmidt a push up the steps to the platform. Mr. Kleinschmidt slowly made his way to the podium. Dave shook Mr. Kleinschmidt's hand warmly and then made his exit. Moments later he was standing beside Scooter at the back door. Scooter patted Dave on the back and nodded approval.

"My friends," Mr. Kleinschmidt began, looking over the crowd. "I realize I appear to be old enough to have known Solomon Olmer," he joked. I smiled as some laughed softly. "But, I'm afraid I never had the pleasure. However, I do feel like I've gotten to know him better than anyone else alive today. I have spent several days pondering what kind of man Solomon Olmer was and how and why he died.

"At this very moment, the State of New Jersey is confiscating a national treasure, unearthed just this morning at the very site where Solomon Olmer's remains were recovered."

A loud murmuring interrupted him. Mr. Kleinschmidt cleared his throat politely.

"Also recovered were a letter from his great-grandfather and a personal notebook containing information related to the treasure. Having been privileged to study these items, I can say with certainty that Solomon Olmer was not interested in promoting bootleg whisky for the mob. I can say with certainty that Solomon Olmer was a man of religious faith and conviction.

"The story begins with Johann Olmer. Solomon's great-grandfather made a mistake, as most young men do while they are in the service."

"Woo-hoo!" came a hoot from the crowd, followed by some nervous laughter. Mr. Kleinschmidt paused to smile at some foolish moment of his own.

"Six young men were forced into military service, forced to leave their families and their homeland."

"Been there, done that," called out an elderly male voice. Appreciative grunting from the Vietnam and Korean War generation was audible.

"Being a Messianic Jew in a Germanic state was probably not a picnic even back in the 1700's. Johann Olmer and his five friends were in no hurry to return. They deserted. The American Revolution was not their fight. They wanted to be free to seek their fortune. So, they stole a boat and sailed south. In the clear, warm waters, they found what they were looking for. They discovered a sunken treasure ship. But the water was too deep. They weren't able to get their hands on it. That's when they gave in to greed and temptation. That's when they made their mistake...forcing a pearl diver and his son to bring up treasure from a sunken ship. Forcing a man to risk his life for their gain, they were as guilty as the wealthy Prince that had leased their lives to the British."

Another round of excited murmuring swept the crowd.

"Yes, there was gold buried at the site where Solomon Olmer was found. The clever engineer saw his chance to re-claim it in 1920 when Prohibition created a new demand on the black-market. He approached the wealthy owner of a large estate along a tributary to the Hudson, proposing to design a tunnel to facilitate the distribution of liquor."

The murmuring continued. Mr. Kleinschmidt paused again, waiting for silence.

"He did this for two reasons. One, it gave him access to the land. He didn't just go digging up someone else's property. That would have got him shot back in those days."

"It would get him shot these days, too," Lula's voice carried over the whispering. Mr. Kleinschmidt smiled and nodded, waiting for the laughter to die down again.

"The second reason was that the treasure was too heavy for him to haul out by hand. So, he convinced the owner of the estate to invest in a small rail system. This was state of the art smuggling. But Olmer had other plans."

"Did his plans include getting shot?" Grandma asked. I closed my eyes, and swore softly, feeling all eyes on the back of my head as necks craned towards Grandma.

"No, Edna. I'm pretty sure they didn't," Mr. Kleinschmidt assured her. "Solomon's plan was to retrieve the buried treasure. So, he didn't properly finish the tunnel. He located the treasure, waterproofed the excavated area with a thin layer of concrete, and then flooded the end of the tunnel where the treasure was buried. He claimed the terrain was problematic, and proposed a different location for the tunnel to meet the river. He flooded the chamber so that attention would be diverted from his efforts to retrieve the gold. Once the replacement tunnel was completed closer to the property, no one had reason to go beyond that point, except for Solomon Olmer."

Mr. Kleinschmidt drew a deep breath, pausing for effect. "I know many of you are judging Mr. Olmer right now. You think he was a ruthless man. You think he was a con man, mixing with some very bad elements just to get his hands on a treasure. You think he was motivated by greed. And I thought so to, at first."

Mr. Kleinschmidt opened a book that was resting on the podium.

"In his letter from 1789, Johann Olmer quoted this scripture verse to his son. 'Proverbs 13:22. A good person leaves an inheritance for their children's children, but a sinner's wealth is stored up for the righteous.'

"Johann Olmer left the treasure for his son's children, because he felt guilty for the wrong he had done the pearl diver and his son. He had forced them to risk their lives every day for weeks to bring up that treasure. He knew he did not deserve to enjoy the pleasures he could have bought with the treasure. But, you know what else was revealed in this letter? He learned something about justice. He realized that if he had spent the treasure, he would have gotten exactly what he deserved."

A murmur of confusion erupted.

"Let me explain," Mr. Kleinschmidt continued. "If Johann Olmer had retrieved the treasure, how long do you think it would be before someone killed him for the gold? How ruthless would he have had to become to keep it? Wouldn't he have sold his very soul in order to buy a few temporary pleasures?"

Mr. Kleinschmidt read the verse again. "'A good person leaves an inheritance for their children's children, but a sinner's wealth is stored up for the righteous.'" He closed the book and looked out over the crowd.

"To that good advice, I would add Ecclesiastes 7:11 and 12. 'Wisdom is good with an inheritance, and profitable...for wisdom is a defense as money is a defense, but...wisdom gives life to those who have it.' Johann Olmer had wisdom, and he passed that wisdom to his children. That was a true legacy."

"I'd rather have the gold," a man said. I looked over in time to see Joe's Grandma Bella smacking his cousin Mooch. Mooch had never been accused of having wisdom, but he had stopped drinking, so that was something. I remembered the last time Joe and I had been on a treasure hunt. Joe hired Mooch to dig up the cement in his basement. Joe thought his Aunt Rose might have hidden a load of money down there. Turned out the money wasn't in the basement, and I'm not sure which ended up more hammered, Mooch or the basement floor.

"Johann Olmer told his son that God had given him something better than gold. And even though he gave clues as to where the inheritance could be found, his advice was that if his children did not find the treasure, they were to be even more content with the goodness God gave them. Johann Olmer had learned to be content with the blessings of family and community, blessings money could not buy."

There was a nodding of heads by many in the audience.

"I don't know if Johann's son, or any of his children, ever looked for the treasure. But we know that Solomon did. You may be thinking to yourself, 'this man didn't have a life, because he was obsessed with finding the treasure.' I thought that too, at first. But then, I realized something. A man as clever as Solomon Olmer could have found a way to retrieve that treasure when he was a young man. Why did he wait until his late 40's?"

The crowd was silent, waiting with baited breath.

"The answer came to me while I was looking at this photograph," he said, indicating the photo still showing on the screen behind him.

"The key elements of the rumors surrounding Solomon's story have been the roaring 20's and the booze. But I believe he made his decision to go after the treasure two years earlier."

The photo zoomed in on the wall calendar.

"This photo was taken in 1918. Do you see the seriousness of this man's expression? Most of you are too young to remember the horrors of 1918. World War I didn't cause the plague of Influenza that infected millions and millions of people. But as men from every nation mixed on the battlefields of Europe, the deadly disease spread from continent to continent. That great 'war to end all wars' was unlike any horror ever seen before. Followed by a plague, it must have seemed like the end of the world. Pennsylvania was hard hit. Solomon Olmer's experience was probably extreme due to travel and correspondence with colleagues in other cities."

Mr. Kleinschmidt sighed heavily. "Just about everyone alive at that time lost loved ones to influenza."

The photograph zoomed out, and then zoomed in on the little cluster of flowers in Solomon's button hole.

"'Ring-a-round a rosie, a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down.'" Mr. Kleinschmidt quoted. "That nursery rhyme was very popular during Solomon Olmer's day. Some say it was thought that the flowers kept the plague away. Some say that's a bunch of hooey. What I know is that a serious man of few words is not likely to stop by a florist to order himself a lady's nosegay."

A couple young people were sniggering at the word 'nosegay', but the older ladies were getting mushy eyed. They knew what it meant.

"This man was in love in 1918," Mr. Kleinschmidt asserted. "It wasn't unusual for a professional, educated man in his 40's to marry, especially when we consider that he likely traveled extensively. Maybe she was young and he was waiting for her to be ready for marriage. We may never know. What we do know is that two years later, in 1920, he was not married and was not listed as widowed according to the US Census. So, why weren't they married? I believe it is very possible that, before they could marry, she died as a result of the epidemic. It is possible that, even as this photograph was taken, she was ill."

The photo zoomed back out, and then zoomed in on a white piece of folded cloth on the left corner of the desk. "This was a surgical mask. People wore them in public, just as you see people in China doing because of the Avian Flu epidemic today."

The photo zoomed back out, and then zoomed in on a stack of letters on the desk. The large lettering clearly showed the top letter was from Sam Hill, Beloit, WI. It had been opened, read, and placed on top of the stack of mail.

"This letter is not formally addressed, suggesting that Sam Hill is a friend."

The photo zoomed out, then began zooming in very slowly on Solomon Olmer's serious expression. Now, I did see sadness and stress in his features. There was a gauntness to his face, and a sunken-ness around his cheek bones, as if he had recently lost weight.

"Solomon Olmer had a winning lottery ticket. If you won the lottery, what would you do with it?" Mr. Kleinschmidt posed the question, pausing for each of us to consider our first response. "What would you do if you won the lottery, but it was the end of the world? What comfort could you buy? What would make a difference to those suffering the loss of loved ones or for those facing their own untimely death?"

Mr. Kleinschmidt raised a glossy brochure. "In the card holder in front of you, you will find how I believe Mr. Solomon Olmer proposed to spend his family fortune. Mr. Samuel E. Hill of Beloit, Wisconsin, was one of the original founders of The Gideons International...those guys who leave Bibles in motel rooms. The foundation was able to confirm that Solomon Olmer was indeed a member of The Gideons from 1918 until his death in 1921, and that he donated both his time and money generously. It is likely that he left behind a copy of the Good Book in room 420 of the Stacy-Trent Hotel where he was staying in 1921."

The sound of brochures being opened ensued.

"Solomon Olmer left behind evidence that he was a Messianic Jew, meaning, that he believed in the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. The Good Book must surely have brought him comfort when nothing else could, as I know it has done for me since my wife passed away.

"I came to a deeper faith in God while sitting in a motel room in Michigan, where my wife was laid to rest with her own family. It was a tract in the back of the Gideons Bible that lead me to peace at that time. Thanks to my doctor's insistence, I now own a computer. I did a 'Google Search' for Sam Hill of Beloit, Wisconsin, and was surprised to see his friendly face pop up almost immediately. And that, my friends, is why they say 'the Lord works in mysterious ways.'"

Mr. Kleinschmidt paused again until he had everyone's attention. The photo zoomed out and then back in on the old fashioned telephone with two bells and a crank.

"If Solomon Olmer were murdered, there would either have been two bodies in that chamber or no treasure left to find.

"It is my belief that Solomon's heart was weakened by his own bout with influenza in 1918. He likely died the evening of April 6th, 1921. According to weather records, a unexpected, drenching rain fell up and down the East Coast. In those days, people didn't place long distance calls to coordinate things like releasing a little water from a dam to prevent localized flooding. The Hudson has many tributaries, and the release of a little more water upriver can have a significant influence down river. Taking advantage of the recent low tides, Solomon had previously drained the end of the tunnel where the treasure was buried. He had blocked the exit to the river, preventing the chamber from flooding while he was working. But that night, the water rose quickly with the high tide, flowing down into the treasure chamber from the elevated, alternate tunnel, which was not sealed. Expecting the foul weather to prevent use of the tunnel, and perhaps fearing heavy flooding would delay his ability to retrieve the gold, Solomon was working alone. urgently struggling to excavate the gold. According to the letter, it was not supposed to be possible for one man to retrieve the gold alone. But Solomon did not appear to trust anyone with his secret. I believe Solomon suffered a heart attack before unearthing the treasure. Whether he succumbed right away, or had become too weak to escape the water that flooded the chamber is uncertain. Because the tunnel was blocked, the water could not escape. The medical examiners' report concludes that the body was buried under several feet of dense mud that night, where it remained, untouched, until now.

"In order to honor Solomon Olmer, I ask you to do two things today. As I have told you, the treasure is being excavated by the State of New Jersey. According to the Archaeological Resources Protection Act, the treasure belongs to the American people. Please sign the petition you will find at the door as you leave. It is a formal request that the treasure be made available for viewing at the Trenton Historical Museum, or other authorized agency in Trenton, for at least eight weeks each year. This way, we will know the treasure is being preserved as a historic artifact as it relates to the Battle of Trenton, and not squandered as a cash asset by our government officials."

A round of appreciative mumbling ensued. Government corruption was considered fact, not fiction, in New Jersey.

"Second, and most important, I ask each of you to consider making a donation on behalf of Solomon Olmer to The Gideon's in order to purchase a full Bible, not just a New Testament. As a Jew, it would be very important to Solomon that the entire Old Testament be included. It only costs $5 to print a Bible, and a single Bible can bring comfort and salvation to many souls. Our friend Dave Nelson is going to be publishing this request in the regional newspapers for the next month, as well as requesting related news articles. Our hope is that the donations may approach, if not surpass, Solomon Olmer's expectations, and that in fulfilling his vision, his soul may rest in peace.

"Please pray the Lord's Prayer with me. Matthew, chapter six, verses nine through thirteen. 'Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. And lead us not in to temptation, but deliver us from evil.'"

Mr. Kleinschmidt paused. His head bowed in prayer for a minute, in silence.

"I can't guess the reason God allowed Solomon's life to end that night, but I believe there was a reason. If Solomon Olmer has made a difference in your life today, share it with someone else. Remember him when you pray, and give generously the gift he would have given if he had lived. Comfort. Faith. Forgiveness. Hope.

"Go in peace."

I met Mr. Kleinschmidt at the steps and helped him down from the platform.

"I'm speechless," I told him, wiping tears from my eyes. "How could you possibly have found all that out from one grainy photograph?" I asked.

"I used a magnifying glass," he smiled. "I asked the questions and looked until I found the answers that fit. Means, motive, and opportunity." He winked at me.

"That was amazing," Joe told him, shaking his hand. "Amazing."

"No, it's this one that's brought it all together," he said, giving my hand a squeeze. "She's unraveled another mystery, and I was just thrilled to be along for the ride."

"You were instrumental," I assured him. "You almost made me glad I didn't get the gold, after all." Almost.

"Don't look now, but your grandma and my grandma are talking about us," Joe warned.

"Fine, as long as they aren't dueling," I said, sneaking a peek.

"They're probably plotting how to get us to church tomorrow," he reminded me.

Mr. Kleinschmidt turned to me. "You haven't changed your mind about going to church?" he asked, sounding a little disappointed.

The smile dropped off my face. My heart was cringing at the close inspection Mr. Kleinschmidt was giving it.

"Yeah, what's up with that?," Joe asked, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "You don't have anything to be nervous about."

"It just that..." I swallowed hard. "I've made a lot of deals with God over the years, and mostly, I didn't keep...any of them." I grimaced.

Mr. Kleinschmidt laughed. "Who does?"

Joe smiled. "I'd be guilty on that one too, Cupcake."

"You don't need to make deals with God to ask for his help," Mr. Kleinschmidt said, clearly amused. "Even if you did, it doesn't mean you should ignore God just because you broke your word. He didn't screw up, you did. What are you punishing him for? It's not like you can hide, anyway."

"It just seems like I need to fix it before I can go to church again," I tried to explain.

"What kind of priest do you have running the show down there?" he asked. "What? Does he ask for your report card at the door?"

Joe laughed. "I don't think I'd pass."

"You never do anything wrong...anymore," I said, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Yeah right. I hit on the girl at the hotel."

Mr. Kleinschmidt's face was priceless. "You hit on another woman? Are you crazy?"

"He was trying to help me get into Olmer's room at the Stacy-Trent," I explained.

"Still," He said, shaking his head at Joe.

"What else do you got?" I challenged.

"Let's see," Joe started counting off on his fingers. "Destruction of public property. Withholding evidence. Public indecent exposure."

Mr. Kleinschmidt's eyes were wide, and his mouth was hanging open.

"I puked on his shirt, so he took it off," I explained.

"Public endangerment," Joe continued.

"What public endangerment?" I asked. "You didn't shoot at anybody."

"The high speed chase with DeChooch. And I made my mother run off the road. She passed me while I was shirtless. Then I talked back to her, and Grandma Bella put the eye on me."

"What?" I gasped, open mouthed. "The Eye? Was that before or after the stitches?"

He thought about it. "Before."

"Maybe you should have made a deal with God, to protect you from your Grandma," I said. I was kidding, mostly.

"Aren't you listening?" Mr. Kleinschmidt asked me, suddenly serious. "You don't need to make deals with God to ask for his help. He loves you. When it seems like he doesn't come through, it's not because you were bad. It's because he's got a better plan going on, and sometimes it includes a trip to the hospital or some down time."

"I guess he's got one hell of a plan going here," Joe smiled, indicating his stitches.

"Maybe he needed you out of the way this morning," Mr. Kleinschmidt whispered back meaningfully.

Joe looked curiously at me. "What happened this morning?" he whispered to me.

"Uh, and I don't have any money to put in the collection plate," I said, trying to change the subject.

Mr. Kleinschmidt smiled warmly. "God doesn't need your money. Giving is an act of faith. And it should always be a joy to give, because you want to bless someone else. But, it's more important that you begin by getting comfortable worshiping with others and enjoying God's presence with a clear conscience."

"Um, a clear conscience?" I said, stumbling over the elusive phrase.

"It's Catholic guilt," Joe explained to Mr. Kleinschmidt. "She's always felt like she's hopelessly doomed to fail."

"Well, of course she does. No one's perfect. We all fail. Especially Stephanie. She's a wild one," Mr. Kleinschmidt laughed, chucking me under the chin.

"Why is that funny?" I asked, somewhat mortified to hear myself being described that way. Was that really what Mr. Kleinschmidt thought of me? I was wild and loose?

"You are such a delight to me, my girl!" Mr. Kleinschmidt pulled me in for a hug. I'm not the hugging kind, so I just patted him on the back stiffly.

"Uh, thank you," I muttered as he released me.

"You have brought so much joy to our little corner of Trenton. That apartment building was like the tomb until you moved in. Erma and I have spent so many late nights recounting your exploits."

"Erma?" I asked.

"Mrs. Bestler," he clarified, still laughing. "Erma!" he called. "Come here." He waived her over.

"What's going on?" Mrs. Bestler asked, looking a little concerned by my teary expression.

"Stephanie is concerned that God might be upset with her, so she is afraid to go to church."

"What on earth? Really!" Mrs. Bestler scolded me.

"Mr. Kleinschmidt says I'm a wild one," I told her.

"I'll say! If it wasn't for you, I'd never have had the courage to start on a new career. Imagine, at my age!," she exclaimed, patting my hand. "I love your moxie!"

"What career?" Joe asked, grinning.

"That Sally Sweet brought a fella over to visit his aunt, and I was enjoying a shift in the elevator. He gave me his card and told me to call him about a part in a play he was producing. So, I did. And now, I've got a paid roll in an off-Broadway production of that old Marx Brother's movie, The Big Store! I'm playing myself as the elevator operator. Can you believe it? I've been in New York at rehearsals all week."

Grandma arrived just in time to hear Mrs. Bestler's announcement. "Well, isn't that something? I've always wanted to be in the theater. Do you think they might have a part for me?"

Several other ladies joined in, chatting up a storm and fussing over Mrs. Bestler.

Mr. Kleinschmidt leaned in and whispered, "We're good friends, aren't we?"

"Yes," I smiled sheepishly, following him a few steps back.

"Just pretend you're talking to me, then."

I wrinkled my brow. "I _am_ talking to you," I whispered.

"I meant, when you're talking to God, just treat Him the way you treat me."

I thought about that for a beat. "Um, you're not God," I told him.

"You'd never be as rude to me as you've been to him," he pointed out. "Stop treating God like the genie in the lamp."

"Oh," I whispered, feeling somewhat ashamed of myself.

"Trust Him with your secrets. Tell him everything, even the juicy details. He already knows. But He likes it when you trust him enough to talk to him. Then, listen, and he can reveal things to your heart. He can help you make those hard decisions, like resisting the temptation to steal the treasure back from the State of New Jersey," he laughed.

I blushed. "It was just a thought," I admitted, waiving it away.

"I promise, He forgives you for not keeping your end of those little deals. You obviously feel terrible. He doesn't want you to feel bad. He's your father. He loves you. You fear God and you go out of your way for others. Jesus said that on these two commandments, all the rest are hung. Jesus wasn't a big fan of legalism. He kept it simple. That's why I know He's proud of you, in spite of your varied and numerous failings. I'm not saying it's okay to do wrong. But it's even worse to ignore God and stop trying. Forgive yourself. Try to do better next time. But hear me on this. Prayer is not a magic spell. Bad things are going to happen in this life. But God will always be there, long after I'm gone."

I was suddenly choked up, unable to think about Mr. Kleinschmidt being the one laid out at Stiva's. I tried to blink back the tears.

"Can you just tell Him 'hi' for me, and then see how it goes?" he asked.

"Yeah," I agreed. "I can do that."

"Tonight?" he pressed.

"Sure."

"Good," he said, giving my hand a little squeeze. "I'll expect to see you in church tomorrow, then."

"You're coming to mass?" I asked, shocked.

"Is there a law against it?" he asked. I wasn't sure if he was serious. "What kind of priest do you have running the place?" he asked again. He was teasing.

Dave and Scooter were releasing the brakes from the gurney. Mr. Kleinschmidt and I turned to look up at the lingering image of Solomon Olmer still being projected onto the screen.

"So long, Solomon Olmer, and thanks for all the fish," Mr. Kleinschmidt said jovially as the casket was rolled away. This got me smiling.


	33. Amazing Grandma Mazur

"Steph, can we get you to move your car for us?" Dave asked, as he and Scooter wheeled Solomon's casket towards the back door.

"Sure." I motioned to Joe, and he joined me. We followed Dave and Scooter out the door, into the bright sunshine. I shaded my eyes. I could see Carl sitting behind the steering wheel of his own hearse-mobile. He looked like he was waiting for something. The parking lot was crowded with people who were returning to their vehicles, but ended up milling around talking.

"I didn't realize you were driving Solomon yourself," I said.

"An associate is going to drive the body to Pennsylvania. But this is part of the compromise," Scooter whispered. He was trying to keep a serious face, but he was about to crack a smile any second.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"Can you move the car, please," Dave asked, annunciating clearly. Something was definitely up.

Joe took the keys from me and backed the Camaro up about ten feet, blocking the alley. He was looking curiously down the alley. Something had his attention, but he turned off the engine and got out without looking back.

Dave opened the door to the shiny black hearse, locked the gurney in place. Dave and Scooter slid the casket into the hearse, right beside an identical pine casket. They covered Solomon's casket with a white velvet cover.

Dave turned to turned to Scooter. "Help me take it back out. I forgot something. They pulled the second pine box out of the hearse, placing it on the gurney. "Can you help me for a second?" he asked Scooter.

Joe grinned. "Why don't we go see how things are going with Carl?" Joe asked me as he slipped his keys to Scooter.

"What the..." I started to ask as Joe spun me around and marched me cross the parking lot. He slung his arm over my shoulders and appeared to be leaning on me, but clearly, his meds had worn off. He seemed to be wide awake and his strength was back.

Carl looked a little nervous as we approached.

"Hurry, jump in," Joe told me. I opened the door to the hearse and slid in, making room for Joe on the bench seat. The hearse was rocking gently with the idling of the engine.

"This isn't a good time," Carl told us.

"Too late," Joe told him, pointing to Grandma. She had just rounded the side of Stiva's from the alley and was racing towards Carl's hearse with the gurney. Carl popped the latch and the back door opened. He jumped out to help Grandma ram the casket inside. Grandma jumped in the back with the casket.

"Let's go!" Grandma told him. Carl slammed the back door shut and raced back to the driver's seat, taking off.

The crowd was watching dumbstruck.

"What are you doing?" I yelled at Grandma. "That's a man's body!" Ok, I figured I knew what was in there, but Grandma didn't know. Part of me wanted to jump over the seat and throttle her.

"Dave had it coming. He wouldn't give me a peek at the remains," she said. Grandma was grunting, trying to get the lid up. "What did they do, glue the lid down? That's not Kosher," she complained.

"Where are you going?" I shouted at Carl. He wasn't in on the gag either. I was sure of it.

"To the Elks' Lodge. They promised to spring us from jail if we get arrested," Carl said. "I love Edna," he confessed. "I'd do anything for her. Anything."

"Too much information," I told him. Way too much.

A few minutes later we were careening into the Elks' parking lot. There was large tent set up by the back door. Two of the lodge members were holding up a large flap. Carl drove right inside the tent, hiding the car.

"That'll give us more time before the cops find us," Carl explained.

"Right," I said, raising my eyebrows at Joe. Crazy Carl Coglin was really living up to his reputation.

We all got out. Carl and one of the Elks brought the casket in through the back door. A long folding table with a white table cloth had been set up for the impromptu viewing. There were about fifty folding chairs set up in rows in front of the table.

"This is wrong on so many levels," I complained.

Cars were pulling up in the parking lot, and the Elks and associates started filing in. Someone was taking "donations" at the door.

"You're charging admission?" I asked Grandma, not believing what I was seeing.

"It's bail money," she assured me.

"You're gonna need it," I told her.

"It's for you too. You and Joe were accomplices."

I turned to Joe.

"She's your grandmother," he said, palms up, grinning at me.

OK, probably we weren't going to get arrested, because probably that wasn't Solomon Olmer in there. Probably. I looked back at Joe. He was grinning. He walked back to the bar, grabbed a can of Pepsi from the open ice cooler and took a seat on a stool, ready to watch the show. I started to relax, deciding to join him. I grabbed a can of my own, then slid onto the stool beside him.

"OK, let's get the party started," Grandma called out. "Who's got the pry bar?"

"You'll ruin the wood," Carl said. "Let me look at it."

"Stop!" I said, setting my Pepsi down on the bar and sliding off the stool, making one last attempt to save Grandma from herself. "Don't you realize what you're doing? It's disrespectful. It's rude. It's illegal."

"Says who?" Grandma asked. "We just want to pay our respects." Some of the crowd murmured agreement with Grandma.

"You just want to see a dead body," I told her. The same people murmured agreement with me. I rolled my eyes. There was no stopping this.

"Dave told me that Jewish law prohibits looking on the body of the deceased because the body can't look back," Joe warned Grandma. "He can't defend himself. It's like speaking ill of the dead."

"He's been dead ninety years. Do you really think he's still hanging around?" Grandma shot back. "Is it nailed shut or glued shut?" Grandma asked as Carl examined the box. "I didn't see any nails. Does anyone have a bottle of nail polish remover? I think we need some acetone."

"It's got wooden pegs holding it shut instead of nails," Carl told her. "I just need a screw gun, a wood screw, and a pair of pliers."

A few minutes later, Carl announced that they were ready to begin the viewing. Joe pulled out his phone and started a video recording. He set the phone on one of the built-in speakers above the bar so the picture wouldn't be shaky. "For Scooter and Dave," he explained.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered to say goodbye to Solomon Olmer, in true Berg style," Grandma announced. With that, she braced herself as if preparing to look on some gruesome sight. Then she flung back the lid, eager to be the first to pay her respects to the deceased.

A hush fell over the room as everyone waited for Grandma to make some comment regarding the state of the remains. Grandma was still as a statue. We could almost hear her bones creaking as she began tipping backwards. Carl dove for Grandma, catching her as she fell straight back, eyes open wide, in a catatonic state.

Carl laid Grandma on the floor, then leaned over, looking into the casket. "He's alive!" he cried, sinking to the floor on top of Grandma. The crowd split in two, with half racing for the door and the other half jostling to get a look inside the casket.

Joe was laughing. I cut my eyes to him. "Scooter sent me a photo while you were parking the car," he whispered. "I forwarded it to you during the service."

I had turned my phone off. I turned it on and opened the photo. It was a perfect likeness of Solomon Olmer dressed in a 20's style suit, including shoes. His sparkling eyes were open and his spectacles were perched on the end of his nose, seeming to be defying gravity. He looked very serious. Not mean, but not at all amused.

"Where did they get the suit and glasses? And the shoes?" I asked. "They look authentic."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Faux Paw Fashions?" I asked.

"No. Mrs. Bestler's closet. They belonged to her late husband. Apparently, he was somewhat older than she was." Yikes.

"What was in the other casket?" I asked Joe between hysterical screams from the mourners.

"The casket at the funeral contained Solomon Olmer's bones. His casket wasn't violated. Scooter used one of the artificial skeletons to make the body in this box," he explained.

"He isn't moving," Whitey Blocher called out. Whitey was a cabbie who worked with my dad.

"I dare you to touch him," Arty Boyt said to Whitey. Arty lived in my old apartment building.

"How much?" Whitey asked.

"Twenty," Arty offered.

"Are you kidding me? Did you look at this guy?" Whitey asked.

Arty took another look, pulling his head back quickly, like he was afraid Solomon would see him and take his vengeance for being disturbed. "Fifty," he offered.

Whitey looked back in the box, then shook his head no.

"A hundred," Arty said. "That's my final offer."

"Done." Everyone made room up front for Whitey, who had to step over Grandma and Carl to get up to the casket.

"Ew!" Emma Rodgers squealed as Whitey reached in to touch Solomon's chest.

"He's hard as a rock," Whitey said, giving Solomon's chest a little tap. Getting braver, he touched the forehead. "It feels like some kind of pliable plastic," he announced.

Everyone crowded back around the casket. Camera phones were flashing. Everyone was texting and phoning friends about Stiva's miracle restoration of the skeletal remains.

Somehow, a reporter from the paper had made it inside and was examining the "cadaver". "Is this a hoax?" he asked, tapping on a glass eyeball.

"He looks exactly like his photograph," Emma enthused.

"Pay up," Whitey said, holding out his palm to Arty.

Arty slapped down five twenties. "It was worth it. You should have seen your face," he laughed.

I looked down at the photograph again, smiling. Solomon's hands were by his sides, not folded on his chest. He looked sort of stiff, like he had died standing for a photograph and rigor mortis had set in. But it was lifelike, that was for sure. I zoomed in. Hair, eyebrows, eyelashes, the pink around the eyes. It was a remarkable job. Scooter had skills.

I dialed Dave. "You're crazy," I told him when he picked up.

"How did it go? Did you record it?" he asked. "You're on speaker."

I hit speaker on my phone. "You are too. Joe's with me. Yes, Joe is recording the show for you."

"Did it work?" Scooter wanted to know.

"Like a charm," Joe told him.

"You did an amazing job," I told Scooter. "I just wish Grandma had been more respectful," I told them apologetically.

"At least she's predictable, and she's got a solid following," Dave said. "It didn't take much to get the Elks involved."

"We should be back soon," Joe told them before disconnecting.

We sat for a few moments, watching as the crowd that had fled to the parking lot returned, shuffling nervously towards the casket. Apparently someone had given the all clear.

"Scooter is going to donate Solomon's likeness to be displayed with the treasure in the museum. I think we should include the letter and the notebook. It should all be kept together," Joe said.

"Yeah, I think that would be good," I agreed. "Although, the letter might be worth something. And it wasn't found on public property."

"Officially, it belongs to the Stacy-Trent Hotel," Joe told me.

"Oh," I sighed, disappointed. "We just aren't going to win on this one, are we?" I asked.

Joe smiled, taking my hand in his. I felt him slip something cool into my hand. He wrapped my fingers around the cloth containing the five gold coins as he kissed my hand. "Some things are worth more than you can sell them for," he told me.

"Yeah," I smiled back.

"It'll be our little secret," he said.

"What about Emilio?" I asked.

"I'll take care of Emilio," he whispered. "Just promise me you won't get gold fever again. I don't want to end up in jail with Carl," he teased.

We looked back over to the crowd. Carl was slowly getting to his feet. He reached down for Grandma's hands, helping her up. She held onto him for a minute, and then looked back down into the casket.

"He was looking right at me," Grandma tried to explain.

"Scrawed mre twoo," Carl said.

Grandma looked at him. "What did you say?"

Carl put his hand to his mouth. "Uh fing ah loshed muh teef," he said.

"Your teeth?" Grandma asked. They both looked down at the floor. They looked all around. Grandma bend over to look under the rows of folding chairs. "Uh oh!" she cried. "I think I found them."

To my horror, Grandma reached down into her blouse and started feeling around. She pulled out the uppers first, then had to go back in to locate the lowers. Carl popped his teeth back in, but they weren't staying put. I jogged over with the tube of Mama Mia Super Duper Dental Glue. After using the needle nose pliers, Carl finally got the lid off and finished off the tube.

"Good thing you still had that," Grandma said.

"Yeah, good thing," I said. "How did the super glue work out?" I had been curious.

"It only held for 48 hours. But I really enjoyed sleeping with my teeth in. When I told Carl about it, he told me he uses cushion grip thermoplastic denture adhesive. He says it works for four whole days. I put it on, and my teeth haven't come out yet. It's fantastic."

"Well, that's a problem solved." I said, not sure if I should feel relieved or not. I didn't think Carl would intentionally poison Grandma, but I was sure he was using non-toxic chemicals in his kitchen. And to find out he was putting thermoplastic goop in his mouth on purpose gave me pause.

"Well, the cops aren't here yet. You want to help us return the casket?" Carl asked Joe.

"I think we'd better. Our car is back at Stiva's," Joe said.

"Good. Maybe you can talk your buddies out of arresting us."

"I'll do my best," he promised. Turning slowly to me, Joe groaned. "Any chance we can we hurry this along?"

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm sure it will be over soon."

"How soon?"

"You can have some more pain meds as soon as I can get you home," I assured him.

"Well, maybe not that soon," he whispered back with just a hint of amour.

"Maybe after your shower," I suggested as Joe pulled me into his arms.

"I think I can last that long," he said, kissing a line down my neck. If he kept kissing me like that, neither of us were going to last that long.

"We're at a viewing," I reminded Joe.

"I've seen enough," he said. "Let's go."


	34. Dearly Departed DeChooch

Eddie Gazarra was waiting outside Stiva's for us when we returned.

"What's going on?" Joe asked. "Beside stolen corpses, I mean."

"Plenty," Eddie said. "We got a number of complaints this morning from Quaker Bridge Mall Security. It seems that Mr. Alexander didn't come to work this morning."

Mr. Alexander was the king when it came to repairing hair disasters. More than once, he'd had to trim away singed ends and remove stubborn gunk from my poor hair. His conditioner was the best. The only problem with Mr. Alexander's salon was the line that formed before the doors opened.

"What happened? Did they find him? Is he okay?" I asked, as concerned about the future of my hair as I was for Mr. Alexander.

"Apparently Eddie DeChooch needed some cosmetic assistance shortly after midnight last night, and decided Mr. Alexander was going to be the one to help him. Alexander was found tied up in his home. He was upset about being forced to ruin some of his best wigs, but other than that, he was okay."

"How did DeChooch know where Mr. Alexander lives? I don't even know where he lives," I said.

"Apparently DeChooch's social club gets their hair pieces from Mr. Alexander. These guys aren't about to be seen buying their rugs at the mall," Eddie explained.

"What kind of makeover did Mr. Alexander do for DeChooch?" I asked.

"Apparently he fixed him up with a gray and carmel blended wig and matching beard. It took hours to get the dye right. Several wigs were wasted while he tried to get just the right look. He even gave DeChooch colored contacts and a manicure. He was making DeChooch match a passport photo."

"Judge Jack O'Brien's passport photo," Joe guessed.

"Yep."

"If Mr. Alexander did the job, he'd pass any inspection," I assured them.

"He already did. DeChooch turned up at the emergency room at St. Francis, but we missed him. He was there have a contact lense removed from his eye. It had slipped around towards the back of his eyeball and he couldn't get it out. Both contacts were removed. By the time the nurse realized the paperwork was for Judge O'Brien, who had already been admitted to the psych ward, DeChooch was gone. That was about noon."

I checked my watch. It was already going on 4:00.

"Classic," Joe laughed. "I'm so glad I don't have to fill out all those reports anymore," he smiled.

"Yeah, right. You're job is so much cushier," Eddie said, giving Joe a friendly smack in the arm.

"Hey!" Joe complained. "Watch the stitches!"

Eddie laughed. "You started it."

"So, where do we come in?" I asked Eddie.

"I think you should have a little talk with Mrs. O'Brien," Eddie said. "She's your client. I don't have any reason to believe she's in danger, but if DeChooch comes to search her house for the access code..." Eddie made a gun with his finger, and pulled the trigger. "See ya," he said, walking back to his car.

"I'm driving," I said, taking the keys from Joe. Joe didn't argue.

"Since we're not going straight home, you think I can pop a pain pill now?" he asked as he struggled with his seat belt.

"After we meet with Mrs. O'Brien. I don't want you asking stupid questions while we're there," I told him.

"Like what?"

"Am I naked?" I asked, imitating Joe's performance in the hospital.

"Do you want to be?" he asked suggestively, giving me a wolf grin.

I rolled my eyes at him. I started the car and put it in gear, taking off.

He groaned as we turned the corner. "You're never going to let me forget that, are you?"

"Nope," I smiled. "And I have more."

"I'm sure you do, Cupcake, but you know what?"

"What?" I asked, challenging him to start with me.

"I love you anyway."

"I love you too," I told him.

Mrs. O'Brien was wearing a lavender and cream wrap-around dress when she opened the door. She didn't look any different than she had the other day. No more stressed, no less pleasant. And she didn't look surprised to see us.

She invited us in. We sat side by side on the couch, and we declined the offer for tea this time.

"Mrs. O'Brien, I'm sure you are aware that your husband was admitted to St. Francis late last night," Joe began.

"Yes. I received a call from the hospital chaplain, and from the Chief."

I didn't know that. Had Joe talked to the Chief while I was out? Man, we were good.

"Have you been able to visit your husband?" he asked.

"No. I understand that it might not be a good idea for me to see Jack right now."

"Why is that?" I asked.

Mrs. O'Brien shifted a little in her seat, clearly uncomfortable discussing such a delicate matter. "It seems that Jack is suffering some kind of mental break," she explained.

"Did the Chief inform you that there are charges being filed against your husband?" Joe asked softly.

"Yes, he did mention it," she nodded with a frown.

"An emergency meeting was called this morning. Mr. O'Brien is being transferred to an out-of-state facility for evaluation."

"I understand," she said. "He will either be found competent to stand trial and will be sentenced to jail time, or he will be found incompetent and will be locked up in a state mental facility. Either way, he won't be coming home."

"How are you doing?" I asked. "Are you okay?"

"It's not unexpected," she said, trying to smile. "I'll be fine."

"Do you intend to assist your husband by arranging legal counsel?" Joe asked.

"No. Jack was very clear. I have no business messing with his business, and I am to mind my own business," she said sweetly. Her pleasant tone didn't mask the bitterness beneath.

"I understand," Joe nodded. "I feel I should prepare you for the likelihood that the police will be asking for your cooperation. Their investigation into your husband's disappearance is ongoing."

"The Chief said Sy Bernstein kidnapped Jack, and that Sy is dead. Isn't the investigation closed?" she asked.

"I'm afraid there are few loose ends," he admitted. "It seems your husband did indeed have a lot of money stashed away in a small, non-extradition country called Micronesia."

She nodded, pressing her lips together.

"You told me that it was possible your husband had access to funds you didn't know about," Joe reminded her. "But you were aware of Jack's illegal activities, weren't you?"

"I can't be forced to testify against my husband," she said.

"No. But is it possible that he has implicated you in his actions?"

"No, I don't have any involvement," she assured us. Then, looking down, she sighed. "I knew he would just up and leave one day."

"How did you feel about that?" Joe asked gently.

"Angry," she admitted. "Relieved." She shrugged. "I don't know."

"What did you plan to do when that day came?" Joe prompted.

A rueful little smile played on her lips. "Just between us?"

"Yes, just between us," Joe assured her.

"I know the money is dirty. I don't want it. But, I didn't want him to get away with treating me like that. He was going away to some tropical island, leaving me here in shame with no financial support. All of our assets will be siezed. There will be no retirement fund, no pension, not even medical or life insurance. He treats me like I'm stupid, but I'm not. I took a photo copy of the access card he had hidden in his room. There was a phone number on the card. I copied his sim card, and I listened in on his phone calls. When he dialed that number, I recorded the call, and decoded the tones for the access code. Then I called the number, and checked the balance. It was about ten million dollars last time I checked."

"When was that?"

"The day after he disappeared."

"What did you plan to do?" I asked.

"I thought I'd transfer it all to some charity and leave him with nothing, just like he planned to leave me."

"What about you? How are you going to live?" I asked.

"I told you I get an allowance. He just considers it spending money. The house and bills are all paid. So, I took just about all that money, and I've been investing it in a trust fund for my nephew. It's sheltered, and can't be touched when our funds are siezed by the court. I've been paying into that fund for the last twenty years. It put my nephew through college. He's a lawyer in Boston now. He's making quite a fine living for himself and his family. He'll use the fund to take care of me for the rest of my life. I won't lose the house or the lifestyle I have become accustomed to," she explained.

"Wow, I'm impressed," I told her.

"I was just waiting to see that Jack was accessing the account. He never did. I didn't want to transfer the money, and then find out he was dead in a ditch somewhere. It might have raised suspicions if the CIA or some other agency was onto Jack and was monitoring the account."

"Good thinking," I agreed.

"I thought about giving the account number and access code to the cops, but then what would happen to the money?"

"Nothing good," Joe agreed.

"Restitution would only return it to the hands of the criminals, or it would be absorbed by attorneys and court fees."

"I think giving it to charity sounds like a better plan," I agreed.

"That's not really a legal option," Joe advised.

"We're not cops," I reminded him.

"What if someone else transferred the money?" Mrs. O'Brien asked.

"Who?" I asked.

"Eddie DeChooch? Isn't he the one with access to the account?"

"Only if he's discovered the access code."

"If he has Jack's passport, he's got the plane tickets, and if he's got the tickets, he's got the code."

"What tickets?" Joe asked.

"Jack purchased open ended round trip tickets to return him to Micronesia."

"Round trip...return?"

"Apparently he flew one-way there, and then purchased a round trip, open-ended ticket, so he can fly back there anytime."

"You would think the police would have noticed this in their investigation," I said to Joe.

"There's a big difference between checking manifests on existing flights and checking for open tickets," Joe said. "I wouldn't have thought of it."

"When's the next flight out?" I asked.

"There's a flight daily leaving Trenton for Honolulu at 12:30 pm, she said.

Joe and I just looked at each other.

"DeChooch had just enough time to make that flight," I said.

"Yeah. Can you tell if he's accessed the account?" Joe asked.

"Sure."

Mrs. O'Brien dialed a number on her cell.

"That phone is probably being monitored," Joe advised.

"No, it's a disposable."

Joe and I exchanged looks again.

Mrs. O'Brien entered the pass code. "A thousand dollars was withdrawn by ATM at the Trenton airport," she said.

"DeChooch has the code."

"How would he have figured that out?" I said.

"It's the flight number, United Airlines "island hopper" flight UA154 westbound to Honolulu—Majuro—Kwajalein—Kosrae—Pohnpei—Truk—Guam," she recited. "The flight number was circled on the the ticket."

"Maybe, but DeChooch isn't that tech-savy. I have a hard time imagining him putting that together."

"Maybe Jack talked," Joe suggested.

"Maybe." I was unconvinced.

"If he's got to fly to Hawaii first, we can have him picked up," Joe said, pulling out his phone.

"Why? So he can go back to jail for life? Or so he can break out and terrorize Trenton some more?" I asked.

"What do you suggest?"

"Justice. Let's just give him a little more time to get there. How long will it take DeChooch to make it to Micronesia?"

"It's a twelve hour flight from Trenton to Honolulu, and then a ten hour flight from Honolulu, leaving three times a week. It should be leaving tomorrow afternoon," she said. "He'll be in Micronesia by Monday."

"That's a lot of time to sit on this," Joe said. But he was considering it.

"If they know DeChooch is using O'Brien's passport, won't they know he's on the flight?"

"The passport isn't in Jack's name," Mrs. O'Brien laughed. "He bought it. Paid a pretty penny for it, too, no doubt. After all, he'd know who to buy it from, wouldn't he?"

"What name is on the passport?" Joe asked.

"Huh, you know, I can't seem to recall," she said, putting her finger to her chin as she shot me a sly smile. "I'm sure it'll come to me, sooner or later."

"Fine," Joe said, putting his phone away. "We'll discuss it again on Monday. I'd hate to bother the Chief without having something solid to go on. At this point, all we have is speculation."

I grinned at him. "You're a good man, Charlie Brown."

"Did you just call me a loser?" he asked, shaking his head at me.

"I see the way he looks at you," Mrs. O'Brien said, leaning towards me. "He's a winner."

"I know. That's why I married him," I stage whispered back, slipping her a shiny brochure. "Have you ever heard of The Gideons?"


	35. Soap Suds

Joe's Point of View

It was pushing 5:30 when we got back in the car. My wounds were itching and the deeper cuts were throbbing from sitting all day, despite my attempts to sit up straight. I wasn't used to maintaining good posture, and I was exhausted from trying.

I considered letting Stephanie drive, but decided that if I was already fully coherent and in discomfort, I may as well drive. Sitting like an invalid beside her wasn't going to make me feel any better. I followed her around the back of the car, spinning her around and pressing her against the driver's side door. I enjoyed the surprised look I got as I leaned in for a bone melting kiss. We hadn't eaten all day, and I was suddenly hungry. That primal urge just deepened the kiss. She didn't even notice when I slipped the keys out of her hand.

"Let's go home now," I groaned against her ear as I tried to disengage.

"Okay," she agreed, pressing me back. She started to turn to open the driver's door.

"Other side," I growled, smacking her possessively on one butt cheek, encouraging her to go around the back side of the car.

She opened both hands, realizing I had the keys. She tottered unsteadily around to the passenger door. I loved being able to disorient her like that. It was bad of me, I know, but it proved I still had the touch.

We got in and motored across town. We were ten minutes from bliss when Stephanie's phone rang. It was Dillon.

"What do you mean, Winnie's missing?" she asked.

I could hear Dillon's frantic voice on the other end. Steph pulled the phone from her ear and put it on speaker.

"...she went to work this morning, and that's the last I saw of her. She didn't come home. I called my aunt, but it was her day off. I went to Cranberry Manor and asked around. Winnie was at work, but no one saw her leave. She takes the bus. I haven't been able to track it down yet. I thought I'd call you first."

"Why?" I asked. "We're not working this case. Did you call Ranger?"

"No way I'm calling Ranger," Dillon responded. "I'm desperate. The only person Ranger listens to is Stephanie. That's why I'm calling you."

"You want me to call Ranger?" Stephanie asked, giving me a worried look.

"Yes. Please. Please." He was begging.

"What if he doesn't have her?" she asked.

"Then he needs to know she's missing. He's the only one that could track her down and get her back. Right?"

Stephanie looked questioningly at me. "We'll get back to you. Why don't you go home and wait for her there?"

"Ok," Dillon answered, obviously in need of some Mylanta.

"Well?" Steph asked me. "Which side of the division of labor does this fall on?"

"Cupcake, this is your call." I reached out and squeezed her hand. "This is what it's all about. We're the good guys. We help people. And we have enough money to put something in the offering plate tomorrow," I said, patting the neatly folded check from Mrs. O'Brien that was resting in my shirt pocket.

"You know I'm going to make that call," she said, a trace of that old guilt still showing.

I smiled. "I know. That's why I love you."

She smiled back. Then she dialed Ranger.

"Yo," he said.

"Yo," she answered. "Your on speaker. Joe's with me."

"What's up?" he asked.

"Dillon just called," she said. I expected her to give him all the details, but she didn't say anything else.

"I'm on it," he said, disconnecting.

Stephanie slid her phone back into her purse.

"That's it?" I asked, glancing over at her.

"Yep."

"Are your conversations always that short?" I asked.

"Yep," she answered.

"Well, no wonder," I said, a bark of laughter escaping from me.

"No wonder what?" she asked, her defenses coming up.

I knew I was skating on thin ice here, but I was too amused with these new insights I was getting on Stephanie's relationship with Ranger. I was beginning to think I had read more into it than there actually was. Sure, he risked life and limb for her, but honestly, Ranger wasn't happy unless he was risking life and limb. Spending time around Stephanie was a guaranteed good time for an adrenaline junkie like Ranger.

And as to Stephanie's other needs, like good food, conversation, constant reassurance, encouragement, and feeling protected, the only one I could see that he had covered was protection. And even there, he tended to go overboard and drive her nuts.

I smiled wide. Ok, it was a grin. I couldn't help it. I was feeling vindicated.

"We've never had a conversation that short," I said, indicating a deeper double meaning.

Stephanie narrowed her eyes at me. "Maybe, but Ranger and I don't have screaming fights either," she huffed.

"Hey, I've enjoyed some of those screaming fights," I told her.

"When?" she asked.

"When you're jealous. Or when you're disappointed I can't go somewhere with you. I love it when you want me, and you're screaming mad because you can't have me." I was still grinning, and she was turning red. I was pretty sure it was deepening, changing from anger to deeply embarrassed blush.

"I can say I love you now, out loud, in front of witnesses. You don't need to torture me to check anymore," she retorted.

"Old habits die hard," I warned.

Stephanie's cell phone rang again. It was Ranger.

"Winnie was with Mooner and Dougie," he said, using her assumed name, probably in case someone was monitoring our phone calls.

"Why?" she asked.

"She got paid today and wanted to buy a present for Dillon."

"From Dougie?"

"Yes. He picked her up from work."

"Then what's taking so long?"

"Guess she's an indecisive shopper."

"Are you going to pick her up?" Stephanie asked warily.

"Not right now," he said. "Later." And he disconnected. It was hard to determine if he meant he'd pick Maggie up later, or he's talk to Stephanie later.

"What kind of game is he playing?" I asked.

"I don't know," she said, deep in thought as she slipped the phone back into her purse. It rang again, and she checked the screen. A text appeared.

"Dillon says thanks," she said, tucking the phone away again.

"You think he'll turn her over to her parents?" I asked.

"If he thinks it's the best option for keeping her safe, yes."

"It's that simple for him?" I asked.

"I think he just makes it look easy," she answered.

"I don't think he cares about Maggie Stapleton," I said.

"You think he cares because I'll be mad at him."

"Yes."

"I don't think you give him enough credit for being human," she said. "He knows Maggie is an innocent bystander. She's not an enemy combatant."

"You have been around Ranger way too long," I said, surprised by her military references.

"Would you prefer I used cop jargon?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Fine. He knows Maggie is not guilty of any crime, not a wanted fugitive."

"But there's a bounty on her head, just the same," I pointed out. "And he's a mercenary, not a lawman. He's within his legal rights to apprehend and collect."

This took the wind out of her sails, and she slouched down in the seat. "I want to believe he won't do that," she admitted.

"What if he does?" I asked.

She just shrugged.

I jumped the car into the water, and we motored up to the back of the houseboat. We got out, and I checked the gas tank for the house. We turned the generator off when we left, but we were down to about a quarter tank.

"We should head back to the marina while it's still light," I said, cranking the motor over.

Stephanie stood beside me, hugging my right bicep as we chugged along.

"Are you mad at me?" I asked.

"Are you jealous?"

"I guess I don't have any reason to be," I said. "I can see why you married me."

"It was for Bob," she teased.

"I know," I said, planting a kiss on top of her head. I caressed her left ring finger with my left hand and she gave my arm a little squeeze. "I'm really glad you married me," I told her seriously.

"Me too," she said.

We tied off to our usual spot at the marina. Stephanie took Bob for a walk while I re-connected the electrical outlet and shut down the generator.

I poured us each a bowl of cereal and set the milk out on the table. We ate in companionable silence, too hungry to care about much else. After several bowls of Lucky Charms, we peeled our clothes off and got in the shower.

The hot water felt good, except where it stung a little along the stitches here and there. I watched appreciatively as Stephanie washed her own hair, and then washed mine. We were covered with soap suds from Stephanie's girly shampoo, and the floral fragrance was nice.

I pulled her into my arms. She tucked her right arm into my chest, hugging me with her left, so she wouldn't bump my left side. We rocked back and forth, slowly dancing as we waited for my bandages to soak loose.

I loved not having to talk all the time. I loved how comfortable we were together in moments like this. I don't know if I'd say it was better than sex, but it was in the running. I wasn't thinking about my pain meds anymore. There were a lot of things I wanted to ask her about. Lots of things I thought I would like to hear her say. And I considered briefly whether or not to begin a conversation, but decided against it.

I was a little disappointed when Stephanie finally reached around to my left side and tested one of the bandages against my ribs. There was a splop as the water soaked bandage hit the floor of the shower. I winced a little at the reaction of the hot water making direct contact with my cracked ribs.

"Sorry," she whispered.

"Just do it," I told her, resigned to this necessary evil.

Splop. Splop. Splop. I was finally completely naked under the spray. Stephanie was lathering up her hands with some anti-bacterial soap from the sink. She gently worked the lather up and down my left side, from my shoulder to my ankle while I gripped the support bar with my right hand.

Both of us had been injured while we were dating. Shot, stabbed, burned, stunned, sprained. You name it. But, this felt different. Even though we were a couple at the time, there was the distinct feeling that we were two separate people, living two separate lives. In this moment, I felt that we were one person, living one life. I felt it in a palpable way.

Stephanie kept pausing as she worked at freeing the ooze that was sticking to my stitched up calf and ankle. She had brought the soap dispenser into the shower and was soaping up her hands for the ump-teenth time. Her touch was much more gentle this time than it had ever been before. And I could swear she sensed the same thing I did. It was hard for her to face her feelings, and usually I didn't push it. But I felt like I needed to acknowledge it somehow.

I reached down slowly and brushed her hair back behind her ear, touching her cheek softly. I tried to convey, 'I love you - thank you'. I expected her to smile up at me, but she surprised me by placing a soft kiss on my kneecap.

Why I found that hot, I can't say. But I did. I decided not to do anything about it, though. I let her finish, waiting until she put the soap back on the sink. She snuggled back into my arms and kissed me.

"Now?" I asked, smiling against her lips?

"Now," she agreed, wrapping both arms around my neck. Then she really kissed me. I had to grip the support bar.

Moments later, I was trying to think statistically. About anything...anything statistical would do. As a cop, I had seen a lot of things that proved to me the accuracy of statistics. I knew that there are about 250,000 accidents in the bathroom annually. Most of occur in the bathtub. The CDC reports these statistics...something about statistics...anything about statistics. She was so beautiful. She was killing me. I was trying to focus...non-fatal bathroom injuries. Nothing. I squeezed my eyes shut, but they didn't want to stay shut.

"I'm not sure I have your full attention," Stephanie complained.

I opened my eyes and let go of the support bar, dropping us both onto the floor of the shower. "You do now, Cupcake."

Believe me when I say, I fell for Stephanie in the shower, but it was no accident.


	36. Pillow Talk

Joe's Point of View

When I glanced over at the bedside clock, it was just after 9:00 pm. I had finally taken some pain meds around 7:30 and had fallen asleep with Stephanie in my arms and Bob snoring at our feet.

Steph's side of the bed was still warm. She had just gotten up. I closed my eyes and started to drift off again. I expected to hear the toilet flush and feel her returning to bed. But then I thought I heard voices. Was she on the phone?

I opened my eyes, awake suddenly. Bob was snoring, so I nudged him with my foot to wake him up. He lifted his head and looked at me, then dropped his head back down on my foot.

I strained to hear what she was saying. She was apologizing. She was making up with someone. My first thought was Ranger. I immediately felt chemicals being released in my body. I felt like I'd been kicked in the gut. My teeth were clenched. My fists were clenched. I shut my eyes, and willed myself to lie still and listen.

She was crying. I looked over to the clock again. That's when I noticed her cell phone lying beside it, hooked up to the wall charger. She wasn't on the phone. Someone was here.

I leaned over the edge of the bed so I could see into the living room. She was sitting alone on the couch hugging a big pillow, wiping her nose with a tissue. I just stared for a minute, then I quietly lay back down. My heart was still banging around in my chest from the adrenaline and my blood pressure was through the roof. I breathed deeply, trying to get a grip.

She hadn't seen me. Her eyes were closed. Was she praying? I had never seen Stephanie pray before. I had to be sure. I crawled slowly to the edge of the bed again.

I couldn't make out most of what she was saying now. Something about Mr. Kleinschmidt. I remembered what he'd said at the funeral. Maybe God had needed me out of the way this morning.

I may have lived like a heathen growing up, but my mother made sure her boys were in church every Sunday. I wasn't an altar boy by any stretch, but I knew the standard Catholic prayers, and Stephanie wasn't using any of those. She was free-styling. Not that I cared. Whatever got her to church tomorrow was fine with me.

I hadn't attended church with my mom since I left home, except on special occasions. And our shoddy attendance hadn't bothered me while Stephanie and I were dating. We were both working all the time. But now, our time was our own, and marriage made me officially responsible for her. I was the husband. The man of the house. The head of the household. And I was not only responsible for caring for her physically and emotionally, but spiritually, according to the Holy Catholic Church. I was responsible for making sure we were both making it to mass and confession on a regular basis, whether we had children yet or not. But especially when we had kids.

I was turning into my mother. That was a frightening thought. But, it was a damn sight better than turning into my father, an angry drunk, child and wife beater, and womanizer.

I tried to channel Frank instead. Division of Labor, I said to myself. Check another one for my side. But somehow, it didn't feel like an added burden. It sort of felt like I'd be getting some help. I felt a little lighter.

I debated going to Stephanie and asking her about this morning, but she was in prayer, alone with God. I decided against it. I waited for her to come back to bed, but the pain meds were time release, and apparently they were kicking in again. Next thing I new, it was morning.

Stephanie and Bob were both asleep. I slipped out of bed to use the bathroom. Stephanie was lying in the middle of the bed in her thinking position when I returned.

"What's on your mind?" I asked, noticing that I was bandaged when I tried to scratch my side. I didn't remember her doing that for me. I must have been out.

She glanced over at the clock. "Are we going to the 9:00 or the 11:00 mass?" she asked.

I smiled. "I think both our families attend the 11:00, don't they?" The earlier mass was for young people and was more progressive. The 11:00 mass was traditional with hymns sung from the same dusty old hymn books our grandparents had used. I smiled, shaking my head as I corrected the thought. We would be using the same dusty old hymn books our grandmothers were still using. It doesn't get any more traditional than that.

"We could make it to the 9:00," she said, hinting that she would like to avoid our families while still attending mass.

"I think we're expected," I told her.

"You want to go to the 11:00," she sighed.

"All your friends will be there," I reminded her enticingly, tickling her feet.

She drew her feet up under the covers. "What am I, five?" she complained.

I was about to say that sometimes she acted like it, but I knew we'd never make it to either service if I did.

I put on my robe and shuffled into the kitchen to start the coffee. Bob took his cue and started sniffing at the door. Stephanie groaned, but slid out of bed and put her robe on, taking Bob's leash in hand.

Once we were both seated at the table with a bowl of Fruit Loops in front of us, I asked, "So, what happened yesterday morning? What did I miss?"

She took her time responding, pouring milk slowly over her cereal. "I told you. We found the treasure."

"You told me about Joyce. You told me about Carl. You told me about your grandma. You told me about Eddie and Costanza and Big Dog. But there's something you're not telling me."

She shifted a little in her seat. "Mr. Kleinschmidt told me where the Ark of the Covenant is hidden."

I froze with my spoon half-way to my mouth. "Say what?"

"Solomon Olmer knew where it was. And Johann Olmer likely did too."

"So, they really were descended from ancient priests?" I asked.

"I guess so," she shrugged.

I put my spoon down, waiting expectantly, but she just kept eating.

"Aren't you going to tell me?" I nearly exploded, not with anger, but with some undefined emotion mixed with a large dose of anticipation.

"I'm not sure you'll believe me," she admitted.

"Do you believe it?" I asked seriously.

She didn't look up. She just nodded.

"Then, why wouldn't I believe you?"

My cereal got soggy while Stephanie related to me all that Mr. Kleinschmidt had told her down in the tunnel. I listened intently. When she was done, I got up to look for my old Bible. I had to wipe the dust off of it before I brought it back to the table.

I felt like we were taking part in some kind of ceremony or religious ritual. My first official Bible reading with my wife in our own home. It felt like some sort of rite of passage. How weird is that?

Stephanie and I both found it daunting to open the book without supervision. Usually, a priest told us where to turn, and expounded on the meaning of the passage for us. I was embarrassed to find that I felt intimidated as we flipped through the four Gospels looking for the story of the crucifixion. After all those years at mass, I didn't know exactly where to find it. I felt a little guilt of my own before we were done.

"Do you feel better, after praying?" I asked.

Stephanie looked a little surprised. "I thought you were asleep," she said.

"I wondered where you went when you got up. I checked on you, and then went back to sleep."

"Oh." She didn't seem to be too upset with me.

"So, did it help? Do you feel better?"

"I think so," she said. "I guess we'll find out when we get there."

"I think there's something I should say, out loud." Something was gnawing a me. Something Mr. Kleinschmidt had said at the end of the funeral. It didn't mean anything to me at the time, but in the Sunday morning hush in our house, it seemed an almost urgent need.

Stephanie reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

"This is going to sound stupid," I said, embarrassed. For a second, I lost my nerve and decided I wasn't going to say it.

"I just went Indiana Jones on you, and you think you're going to say something stupid?" she joked.

"I was going to say," I began. I squeezed her hand. "Solomon Olmer has made a difference in my life. You have made a difference in my life. Mr. Kleinschmidt. My mom. Your dad." I took a deep breath. "And it's been easier to credit people than God. I've been ignoring him too."

Tears ran down both her cheeks. "Yes, it helped," she admitted.

"I think I'm going to need a few minutes outside before we go," I told her.

"Ok," she said, wiping a tear away as I got up.

I stepped onto the front end of the boat and looked up and down the river. I started by whispering a few Our Fathers and Hail Marys to get warmed up. Then I remembered reciting the Lord's prayer at Solomon's funeral. I remembered Father Gabriel saying we were to pattern our personal prayers on that example. So I did that. A fine breeze started blowing across the water, and I knew I wasn't alone. Before long, I relaxed and stopped worrying about formalities.

By the time I came back inside, I knew I was going to have to own up to Stephanie that she was one of the bravest people I had ever known. And I loved her for it. When it counted, she would lay it all out there. Most people wouldn't. She could have kept me in the dark. And next time she would if I didn't respond in kind.

"You were right," I told her, leaning on the doorframe to the bedroom. She was dressed, trying to decide which shoes to wear. "It did help."

She stood staring at me for a second. "I'm glad," she said. I could tell she just wanted to get through mass without crying.

"I like the black pumps with the closed toe," I told her.

She tossed the others back into the closet and stood up. I slipped down on the floor and took the shoes from her. She sat on the edge of the bed while I softly kissed her kneecaps as I slid the shoes on her feet.

"You're the second best thing that's ever happened to me," I whispered, looking up at her.

She seemed to understand. "You're the second best thing that's ever happened to me, too," she answered, pulling me up for a kiss.

"I feel less afraid," I admitted. "Of losing you."

She paused, surprised. "I like the way things are changing with us," she said. "I was afraid...nothing was going to change."

"Me too," I said. "I'm sorry I was so stubborn. I let my pride get in the way too many times. But this feels so much better than saving my pride. You make me feel brave."

She laughed softly. "You jumped out a window and," she gestured to my left side.

"Opening up like this has been scarier," I said.

She nodded. "I was stubborn too," she apologized.

"You were brave," I told her. "In every way. And I love that about you." Before we got too mushy, I thought I'd better pull up or I'd plow into the ground and ruin everything. We still needed to get to church on time. "I'm crazy about you. I'd do anything for you," I said, imitating Carl's declaration of love for Grandma Mazur.

Stephanie laughed. "Anything?" she asked.

I nodded, enjoying the naughty look in her eye. That's my Cupcake.

"I like your navy blue shirt with those new jeans," she told me.

I waited for it, raising an eyebrow.

"Go commando," she ordered.

"You are a wild one," I said, pushing her back on the bed and tickling her as much as I could with only one hand. "What are you wearing?" I asked, trying to get a peek under her dress.

Needless to say, we were running late, but we were both wearing underwear.


	37. Church on Sunday

Joe's Point of View

We held hands as we walked across the parking lot and up the steps to the front doors of The Holy Ascension Church. I shook hands with Father Gabriel as we entered. He didn't look surprised to see us. By now, the entire Berg was probably expecting us.

Our families were in their usual seats. My mother and Grandma Bella always sat near the front. Stephanie's family usually sat towards the back, probably to accommodate Frank's sleeping habits when he attended, which wasn't often. I was glad he was in his assigned seat today. Stephanie and I split the difference, slipping into an empty spot towards the center.

The seats filled up quickly and mass began promptly at 11:00. We began the usual sit-stand-sit-stand routine. I think if you watch any mass on fast forward, it will look like spectators doing the wave at a baseball game.

During one of the sitting periods, I noticed Stephanie watching Mary Lou's kids. Mary Lou was Stephanie's best friend from school. Mary Lou had married Lenny Stankovic. He was self-employed, working with his Dad and brothers as co-owner of Stankovic Plumbing and Heating. Lenny was an okay guy, but his mouth was always hanging open. Mouth breathers may not categorically rate low on IQ, but they give that impression. I just figured he was good in the sack and a good provider, so Mary Lou decided to have a pack of kids with him. She could have done worse.

Eddie and Shirley were sitting right behind them with their own brood. Something was going on. Eddie's boy and Mary Lou's boy were scooting around on the floor. From the look on Eddie's face, someone was in for it after the service. Ah, the joys of parenthood.

"What's going on?" I whispered to Steph.

"Bugs is here," she whispered back. I looked again, and this time, I noticed the fuzzy ears sticking out from Eddie's son's shirt. Bugs was their pet rabbit.

"Nice," I smiled.

Mary Lou was stuffing a decapitated Barbie into her purse and crossing herself apologetically.

"That could be us someday," I whispered back, just teasing. I expected an elbow to the gut, but it didn't happen.

"That could be us someday," she whispered, indicating Mr. Kleinschmidt and Mrs. Bestler. They were sitting across the aisle and two rows up from us. I had to do a double take.

We were standing again. Mr. Kleinschmidt and Mrs. Bestler stayed seated. It was too much for them, so they were excused from the calisthenics portion of the service.

"He's not Catholic," I whispered back.

"She is."

"Are they a couple?"

"I think so."

We got shooshed, so we returned to the reading.

I was rather shocked when Father Gabriel announced a guest from the Gideons. He briefly outlined the request to donate on behalf of Solomon Olmer, and explained that he was giving his blessing to this endeavor, but that it was a rare exception. The Gideons are a Protestant group. But in this case, we could agree that it was more important to make the historical account of Jesus' life available to the lost than to quibble over our differences, ensuring that the lost were doomed to eternal damnation.

I could hear Grandma Mazur behind us telling someone that Father Gabriel agreed when he realized the Gideons were distributing Bibles for $5, but the Catholic charities brochure in the lobby required $25. Of course, the Gideons weren't distributing Catholic Bibles, so it was a tough call.

The man from the Gideons was speaking, thanking us for having him, and offering us an opportunity to do God's work. He asked us to join him in a brief prayer for the endeavor. Stephanie had her hands clasped together. She was praying so hard, her knuckles were turning white. I tried to pray harder, on her behalf. As he said "amen", his cell phone rang. He apologized, taking the call, which had Father Gabriel looking rather annoyed, until the saw the look on the man's face. The man whispered to Father Gabriel, who looked like he was about to faint.

The man sat down, his hand over his heart, grinning like a fool.

"They got the money," I whispered to Stephanie.

She had her hand over he mouth, waiting to hear what Father Gabriel had to say.

"A sizable donation was made on behalf of Solomon Olmer this morning," he confirmed. Stephanie grabbed my hand, squeezing it with excitement. "Your donations are still appreciated. Every Bible has the potential to save a life when you give it to God for his work. Miracles do happen."

Cell phones could be heard vibrating randomly around the sanctuary. Gasps began to erupt and whispering started.

Father Gabriel cleared his throat. "It seems the cat is out of the bag." He looked to the man from the Gideons, who nodded. "The donation has been confirmed to be legitimate. The anonymous overseas transfer was made in the name of Solomon Olmer in the amount of ten-million dollars."

We prayed again, thanking God for his provision. I thought I heard Stephanie whisper, "So long, Solomon Olmer, and thanks for all the fish." But that didn't make any sense.

The sermon began, and I have to admit, I was zoned out. I was in church. I was married and in church...with my wife. I could see my mother and Grandma Bella. Frank and Carl were snoring softly a few rows back, sitting with Stephanie's mom and Grandma Mazur. I was looking around at so many familiar faces from the neighborhood and from school.

Then I looked up at the large crucifix behind the priest. Knowing, and actually believing, what had happened the day Jesus died on that cross made everything about it real to me. It had never been real before. Church had been a social activity. And I could see how I got that idea. But I could see the difference between my faith and my place in the community now. My perspective had changed so much this week. Everything looked exactly the same, but nothing felt the same. I was different. No, it wasn't the meds. I only took Advil that morning.

I glanced at Stephanie. She was staring at the crucifix too. I expected to see tears, or that old guilt creeping in on her, but she just seemed to be in her own quiet little world. I didn't want to disturb her, so I tried to pay attention to the service.

When it was over, Stephanie and I made our way over to Mr. Kleinschmidt and Mrs. Bestler.

"Well, look who's here," Mrs. Bestler said delighted, taking Stephanie's hand in her thin, wrinkled ones. "What a nice surprise to see you here."

"I was about to say the same thing," I said to Mr. Kleinschmidt.

"Edna's been to Temple with me a few times. I figured it was time I attended mass with her," he explained. "After all, we're getting married."

"What?" Stephanie said, beaming. "Really?"

"I have a thing for actresses," Mr. Kleinschmidt shrugged. "I can't help myself."

"Look at this!" Mrs. Bestler said, holding out her left hand. There was a stunner of a diamond set in a gold band.

"Holy cow!" Steph gushed.

"What's going on?" Grandma Mazur asked as she and Carl joined us.

"Sol and I are getting married," Mrs. Bestler told Grandma.

"Holy cow!" she said. "Look at that rock! You could put an eye out with that thing."

"I know! Sol is spoiling me."

"I think I'd like to get married again too," Grandma said. "I always wanted a big rock like that, but your grandpa was a cheapskate," she said to Stephanie.

I glanced over at Carl to see if he was going to faint or burst into song.

"Edna," Carl said, sinking down on one knee. "I've been waiting for just the right moment, but I can't wait any longer." He pulled a ring box from his pocket and opened it. Inside was an Edwardian style ring of white gold featuring a ruby surrounded by little pearls, each in a black setting. It looked authentic.

"Where did you get that?" Grandma gasped.

"Do you like it?" Carl asked, holding his breath.

"I always wanted a ring like that," Grandma gushed. "No one else has one like that. It's a stunner!"

"Will you? Will you marry me, Edna?" he begged.

"Yes," she said.

Carl jumped up and spun Grandma Mazur around while everyone watching applauded, especially Frank. I had never seen anyone so happy about someone else's wedding. I figured it hadn't dawned on him yet that he'd have to help pay for it.

"Look!" Grandma said, putting the ring on and showing it to Stephanie's mom.

"I'm so happy for you," she said, bursting into tears. "Oh, Mom!"

"That's great!" Stephanie said to Carl.

"Where did you score that ring?" Mr. Kleinschmidt asked while Grandma was out of earshot.

"From the guy that does my taxes," he said. "He sells estate jewelry on the side."

Stephanie and I exchanged knowing looks. It sounded a lot like Carl had his taxes done at the mall by Simon Diggery, the local grave robber and herpetologist. It was just a matter of time before the widower or a son or daughter recognized the deceased woman's wedding ring on Grandma Mazur's bony finger.

"You fellas want to come celebrate with me?" Frank asked. I knew he was referring to the stash of cigars he always kept in the glove box.

"We'll be back," I told Stephanie. She was sitting down with Mary Lou, who was trying to figure out what to do with a Kleenex full of bunny poo. She was debating over stuffing it in her purse or putting in the little trash can outside the sanctuary door. It didn't look like it was taken out very often. She didn't seem comfortable with either option.

"Here, I'll flush it," Stephanie said, holding out her hand for the toxic waste. That's my Cupcake.


	38. Maggie on Monday

Stephanie's Point of View

Sunday afternoon flew by. Dad took us all out to eat. Then Joe took a nap in my room while Mom, Grandma, Valerie, and I started making wedding plans.

Carl had cleaned up my Bird's Eye View, which I took home and put back into the bowling bag in the closet. The rats needed too much work, so they were retired until after the Flocking Christmas season.

Monday morning arrived, and Joe and I discussed searching for our next case while we ate breakfast.

"I don't think missing persons is going to keep us out of trouble," Joe argued.

"But it pays better than missing poodles," I pointed out.

My cell phone rang. It was Dillon again.

"Ranger's outside," he blurted out, pumped full of adrenaline. Clearly, his natural instincts leaned toward flight. "Help!"

"Where are you?" I asked.

"We're trapped in your apartment. He's in the lobby!"

That was no good. Ranger knew every way in by heart.

"Go next door to Mrs. Karwatt's," I told him and disconnected, grabbing my purse. "Come on, let's go."

Joe gestured towards his half-full cereal bowl.

"I'll buy you some more Lucky Charms," I said.

He scooped up a couple more spoonfuls before putting his bowl in the sink and following me out to the Camaro.

By the time we got to my apartment, I had run through every scenario I could think of. I was ready with the snappy retorts.

Joe didn't look the least bit concerned. I glared at him as I stomped across the lobby, headed for the elevator.

"What?" Joe asked.

"You're the one who doesn't care what happens to Maggie," I seethed, punching the button.

"What do you want me to do about it?" he asked, stepping into the elevator beside me.

"Care. I want you to care," I told him, jabbing the number two button as the doors closed.

Joe hit the stop button and the elevator jerked as a red light started flashing on the control panel.

"I care," he said. "I have thought about Maggie's case, more than you give me credit for. But I'm...I was a cop. And I've seen...I know what kind of danger that girl is in. Believe me, Dillon can't handle it. If I could help her myself, I would. But we don't have resources to handle it either. Short of dressing her like a teenage boy and hiding her at Morelli House, I don't know how we can help. My number one priority is you, Cupcake. I have to keep you safe."

"So, what? You think Ranger should take her in?"

"I think, with the amount of money her family has, it's only a matter of time before she's dead or wishes she was," he said convincingly. "There are much worse things than marrying a rich asshole. I know that's not the answer you want, but it's the only answer I have."

"Well, that answer sucks," I said. "There has to be another way."

"I know the law. Keeping us within reasonably legal limits is on my side of the division of labor. Determination is on your side of the division of labor," he reminded me. "That is the only reason I'm going along with this. My bet is that Ranger will find a better solution because of your determination. There's something about your 'moxie' that inspires people to move mountains to please you." He brought me in for a light kiss. "Let's go talk to Ranger."

Joe hit the stop button again, releasing the elevator. We started moving again.

"Fine," I growled as the doors opened. "Let's go talk to Ranger."

I knew he was already inside. I tried the door. Locked. I pounded my fist on the door.

"Open this door, Ranger. I know you're in there."

Seconds later, the door opened, and Ranger holstered his weapon. Tank appeared from the bedroom.

"Where is she?" he asked.

"Wouldn't you like to know," I spat at him. "I gave you credit for being a little more...more..."

"I'm taking her back, but she'll have control over her own money and her life," he said.

"What?" I stopped, mid-rant.

"Sit," Ranger ordered.

The four of us sat down at my dining room table.

"I used Rangeman resources to investigate Charles Baxter III. It seems he has fathered a disturbingly large number of children with the household staff at his family's 27 residences over the last 10 years."

"How many?" Joe asked.

"The official count is 103."

I choked as I sucked some spit down the wrong way.

"Yeah," Ranger agreed.

"Is that even possible?" Joe asked, doing some mental math.

"DNA doesn't lie," Ranger said.

"I assume you brought this to Maggie's parents," Joe said.

"I sent a full report to Justin Sedgwick Thiebold, Esquire," Ranger explained. "I pointed out the legal entanglements and potential for embarrassment that could arise as a result of the marriage."

"So, she doesn't have to marry the asshole?" I asked.

"No, she doesn't have to marry anyone right now."

"Then, can she stay here?"

"It's not a good idea. You know how hard it is to keep this apartment secure."

"But Dillon..." I started.

"My attorney has been in negotiations with the Stapleton attorneys. Juniak has been an instrumental liaison between the attorneys and Maggie's parents. They have agreed to grant Maggie access to her trust fund, despite her marital status. The school will allow her to complete her course work. Certain terms were non-negotiable, including graduation, attendance at certain social events, and there are some stipulations as to who she is allowed to marry."

"What kind of stipulations?" I asked.

"I have an excellent attorney," Ranger assured me.

"How excellent?" I asked.

"Where's Maggie?" he asked.

"Where's the contract?" I asked.

A small smile played at the corner of Ranger's lips. "Don't trust me?"

I held out my hand for the paperwork. Ranger pulled an envelope from the pocket on his cargos. I handed it to Joe without looking at it.

"I have an excellent attorney," I told Ranger.

"Yeah? Who?" Joe asked while Ranger broke down and smiled.

Joe looked over the documents. "It's written in legalese all right. But the gist of it is that she's going to have to marry someone a lot higher on the social ladder than Dillon. And co-habitation is out."

"I need to go over the paperwork with Maggie," Ranger said.

Joe nodded.

"I'll get her," I said, getting up from the table.

I went out into the hall and knocked on Mrs. Karwatt's door. Mrs. Karwatt's electronic dog started barking ferociously. "It's Stephanie," I called, but she couldn't hear me over the dog.

I dialed Dillon's phone. "Let me in," I said.

Moments later, Mrs. Karwatt opened the door. "Oh, it's you! Thank goodness."

"Yes, it's just me." I explained what Ranger had been doing, and that Maggie didn't have to marry Charles Baxter III.

"Oh, thank you!" Maggie gushed. "I am so sorry about your husband's shirt. I'll replace it. I promise."

"Just come hear what Ranger has to say," I told her. "We'll talk about the shirt later."

We said goodbye to Mrs. Karwatt and went back to my apartment. Winnie's apartment. Maggie's apartment. Whatever.

Tank and Joe were on the couch watching basketball. I sat down next to Ranger, opposite Maggie and Dillon.

Ranger called his attorney, who walked Maggie through the entire contract point by point. Dillon paled when it became clear what the limitations were on Maggie's time and marital choices.

"It comes down to this," Ranger explained. "An acceptable suitor must earn at least $500,000 annually, have a net worth in excess of one-million, be a US citizen, be at least 35 years old, and it must be his first marriage."

Dillon looked defeated, but I noticed Ranger had that look, like he was thinking about smiling.

The attorney continued. "You need to understand that the original requirements were an annual salary of at least ten-million and a net worth of one-hundred-million. On the surface, it seems like they did everything possible to appear to be making a generous accommodation while precluding Dillon, but here's what we successfully argued to have dismissed. The family wanted to include graduation from a prestigious school, but defining those parameters was a problem, and a specific list of acceptable schools was too lengthy and couldn't be agreed upon. Also, they wanted to include a requirement that the man be from a prestigious family, but again, defining those parameters was too problematic and couldn't be agreed upon."

"Great," Dillon said sarcastically. "I'm over 35 and never married, but I'm still poor and I'm Canadian."

"You're Canadian?" I asked. Then the gears seized up. "Hold it. They knew Maggie was with Dillon?"

"We needed something to bargain with," Ranger explained.

"So you bargained with me?" Dillon asked, incredulous. "What are you saying? They think marrying me would be a bigger disaster than marrying a man who just fathered a small town?"

"Here's our proposal," the attorney continued. "It requires a certain amount of commitment from both of you, but, there is a window of opportunity here for you to live happily ever after, together."

"I'm listening," Maggie said, taking hold of Dillon's hand under the table.

"Sign the agreement. Once you have access to your trust fund, which has grown sizably since your grandmother's passing, you contact my office. I will help you establish a charitable organization or some other legal entity that will allow you to hire Dillon at a starting salary of $500,000 a year. Complete your education requirements. Attend the social events. Keep your nose clean, and you should graduate in six months. During that time, Dillon can apply for US Citizenship. Then, you will continue to see each other as you work together professionally at the organization. Maggie will continue to attend events according to her parent's schedule. Keep them happy. It will go smoother. After a couple of years, Dillon will have a net worth of over one-million, earning over $500,000 annually. And you can be legally married, without risk of losing access to your money."

Dillon and Maggie were bug-eyed.

"How much money is in your trust fund?" Dillon asked.

Maggie shrugged. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "I've never needed it."

"I can't disclose that information," the attorney advised.

"You don't need to know," Ranger assured them, indicating it was an astronomical amount.

"What kind of organization should we start?" Dillon asked.

"Something you would be interested in, since you're going to be running it," Maggie pointed out. "How about Executive Director of the Society for Legal Aid and Protection for Domestics?"

Ranger wrote it down, then burst out laughing. He actually laughed. I looked down at the acronym. SLAPD.

"I like it. Charles Baxter III deserves to be 'slapped'," I said, smacking my palm down on the table. We were all laughing then.

"I know where you can find your first 103 clients," Ranger told Dillon.

The attorney's voice interrupted our tension release. "In the meantime, Rangeman will continue to provide round the clock security."

Ranger pulled a second envelope from his pocket and handed it to Maggie.

"Rangeman is more than qualified to provide you with a personal assistant who is highly trained in physical protection. Your transportation and social events will also be secured by Rangeman," the attorney explained.

I glanced over at Joe. He was listening, shaking his head and smiling at me. I rolled my eyes, realizing that he was right. Ranger found a way to keep me happy while still cashing in on the Stapletons.

Maggie signed both documents and handed them back to Ranger.

"Do I have to go with you now?" she asked.

"I'll give you half an hour," Ranger said. That was pretty generous coming from Ranger. "Tank will help you carry your bags downstairs."

Dillon and Maggie disappeared into the bedroom.

"There's one more thing," Ranger said, pulling a third envelope from his pocket.

"Mr. and Mrs. Morelli?" the attorney addressed us.

Joe got up and came over to the table. Tank followed, smiling at me.

"We're here," Joe answered.

"Part of the negotiation with Joe Juniak involved the disposition of the Olmer treasure."

I glared at Ranger. "What does that mean?"

"The Trenton Historical Society has some well-funded members. In response to the petition to keep the treasure in Trenton, they have agreed to purchase the find from the State of New Jersey."

"What does that have to do with Rangeman?" I asked.

"The Stapletons are more than satisfied with the results provided by Rangeman. Rangeman made it clear that success in locating Margaret and gaining her cooperation depended largely upon assistance from Morelli and Morelli. Upon Margaret Stapleton's safe return, and surrender of the original copies of the signed documents to the attorneys, Joe Juniak will release to you a 'finder's fee', if you will."

"How much?" Joe asked.

"The treasure thus far inventoried includes 1,327 pieces of gold with an average value of $2,000 each. The total comes to $2,654,000 to be paid to the State of New Jersey. The Morelli's are to receive 2%. That's $53,080.00."

"Sign here," Ranger said, handing me a pen.

"Fifty-thousand?" I stammered, signing and passing the paper to Joe.

"The amount of your contract with the Stapleton's," Ranger told me.

"What?" I looked at Joe. "Fifty-thousand, without negotiation? What is Rangeman getting?"

"$100,000 plus compensation for my attorney and a contract for on-going protection for Margaret, which will be quite lucrative. A friend of mine put us in contact with the daughter of a Navy Seal. Trust me, I've seen her video application, and she's well qualified. They had to call an ambulance."

I grimaced.

"Well, that's all I've got," Ranger said.

"Call me tomorrow," the attorney said, disconnecting.

"Let's get going," Ranger said, standing and pocketing all three documents.

"I can't believe you did that for us," I told Ranger.

"You earned it," he said.

"Maybe, but Dillon's the one who really made out on this deal," I said.

Tank knocked twice on the bedroom door, then opened it. "Time to go."

"You said we had half-an-hour!" Maggie complained, throwing a designer shoe at Tank. Tank quickly closed the door again, looking embarrassed.

"No kidding," Ranger said to me, laughing again. "I love my job."


	39. Smooth Sailing

Stephanie's Point of View

Two weeks later...

The grand opening of The Olmer Treasure exhibit was opening at the Stacy-Trent Hotel. Joe and I were dressed to the nines. Scooter gave Joe a shave and hair cut that afternoon, and he was looking so fine I had to fan myself every time I looked at him. He did not look like a casino pit boss in that tailored tux. He looked like a movie star. And when he smiled, I melted. It was like high school all over again, but to the tenth power. I was totally crushing on my husband. I could not believe that man was mine.

We had spent some time looking at the display cases. The gold coins and intricate jeweled chains glistened against the backdrop of black and burgundy velvet. The entire mast had been recovered and was on display along with the cannon and most of the tree. Detailed photographs of the tunnel and the mast were on display along side the letter and the notebook. All of the businesses contributing their time and talents were well represented on the placards.

Solomon's statue was standing proudly along side blown up images of the most interesting pages of his notebook and the photograph from the 1918 interview. Mr. Kleinschmidt's Messianic Temple had donated a beautiful display illustrating the Olmer interpretation of the Boaz and Jachin paradox.

The story of the donation to the Gideons was also prominently displayed along with photographs and letters from those whose lives were changed because of generous donations. Room was being made to continue displaying the photos, stories, and letters, that were pouring in.

"You think those photos are interesting?" Eddie Gazarra asked, joining us. "Check this out."

He handed us a printed photograph of Eddie DeChooch from an airport security camera.

"That was taken two weeks ago at an airport in Guam."

"Is that who I think it is?" Joe asked Eddie.

"Uh-huh."

Joe handed me the photo. Standing beside Eddie DeChooch was a tall, voluptuous woman with a wild mess of red hair. I couldn't see her face, but I knew without a doubt who it was.

"Guess now we know who helped DeChooch withdraw a thousand dollars at the Trenton airport," Joe whispered in my ear.

"What's that?" Eddie asked.

"Nothing," Joe said with a shrug.

"It seems that Joyce Barnhardt escaped police custody while she was in the emergency room at St. Francis. That was about the same time DeChooch was there," Eddie said. "They managed to make it to some tiny island nearby before the authorities ID'd them, but they will both face charges if they return to the US. I think we've seen the last of them. I thought you'd get a kick out of that. I know I did."

"You have no idea," I told him.

"It gets better."

"How?" I asked.

"Remember the broken jaw guy?" I nodded. "He lived. He's going to jail for attempted murder, but he'll strike a plea deal if O'Brien ever makes it to court."

"Guess Terry's gong to have to find herself a new chauffeur," I whispered to Joe.

"What?" Eddie asked.

"Nothing," Joe said. "Is O'Brien still being evaluated?"

"Yeah. Here's irony for you. You know O'Brien was transferred to an out of state mental facility? Well, turns out, it was the same one where Swissler is staying."

"Oh, man," Joe laughed.

"It gets better. See, they admitted both men under assumed names. It took over a week for O'Brien's shrink to figure out why he claimed to be seeing Swissler everywhere. He thought it was some kind of psychosis brought on my his remorse over everything that happened. So they were giving the poor guy electric shock and whatever else, but he wasn't crazy. He really was seeing Swissler. I mean, if he wasn't crazy before, he might be now."

"That's harsh," Joe said.

"What about Swissler?" I asked.

"Apparently, he quite enjoyed the whole thing until it was found out. Now, due to ethical considerations, he probably won't be re-instated to practice any kind of law."

"Seriously? Barring a man from practicing law on an ethics violation? In New Jersey?" Joe laughed.

"That poor man!" I said, elbowing Joe.

"Ow! Still tender," he complained.

Lula was waiving to us from across the room. Her black sequined mini-dress and her 20's style feather hat made me think flapper.

Joe took my arm and lead me to the elevator.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"It's a surprise," he said as the doors closed.

Rangeman was running the security, big surprise. Juniak probably insisted. A Rangeman employee inserted a key into the elevator panel. We rode all the way to the top floor.

The doors opened, and we stepped out onto the roof, where lush foliage spilled from large pots. Waiters were serving champagne and soft jazz was playing. Juniak was throwing a private party, '20's style. I looked up at the stars. It was a clear night, with a big round moon, reflecting over the water. The air felt perfect as the breeze kissed my skin.

"Over here," Lula said, crooking her finger at us.

We followed her to a moderately crowded walkway. Everyone was dress in their best. I remembered the photograph on the wall of the Nymph Room.

"Look gorgeous for the camera," Lula said, smiling up at someone at the other end of the building. I followed her gaze. There, secured with a safety harness, was Melvin Pickle. He had a fancy camera mounted on a tall tripod.

"I knew you liked that picture," Joe said, pulling me into his arms and kissing me.

"Now that's what I'm talking about," Lula said.

"Wait for me," Connie called, trotting over, her heels clacking. Betty Boop had nothing on Connie tonight.

We all posed for Melvin for a few minutes. Then Joe took my hand and lead me to the high ledge. We looked down, across the water, over to Pennsylvania Avenue, enjoying the night life.

"I love you," I told him.

"I love you too."

Joe was just about to kiss me. It was almost the most romantic moment of my life. Almost.

"That's him!" a girl called out.

Suddenly, Joe was tackled to the ground by what appeared to be an entire pack of offensive linemen. Thankfully, he'd healed enough to have his stitches out already.

Ranger came running.

"What are you doing?" I yelled at him.

"That's the guy?" Ranger asked. I turned to see the girl Joe had hit on at the reception desk a few weeks ago.

"Oh, crap," I said.

"And that's the female agent," the girl told Ranger, pointing at me.

"I'm not surprised" he said. "Let him up," he told his men.

Joe was returned to his feet. He dusted himself off, and everybody turned to look at me.

"OK, maybe this time...it was my fault," I said, explaining what happened.

"Don't worry about it," Connie said. "You just made us a mint! Melvin got it all on tape. It was classic. I can't wait to see it with a soundtrack."

Once the crowd dispersed, we tried to find that moment again, but it was pretty much gone. Joe's hair and tux were disheveled, and I had kicked off my heels. We were relaxing together, looking over the water.

"Can't you just see Johann's ship sailing up the Hudson," I asked.

Joe held me tight, his body warm against me in the cool night air. "Cupcake, all I know is, when I married you, my ship came in."

"Mine too," I whispered as he kissed me.

The end.


End file.
